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HARPER’S LIBRARY OF SELECT NOVELS. 


Messrs. Harper & Brothers beg leave to call attention to the following revised 
and enlarged list of their “ Library of Select Novels,” and to the reduced prices. 

The list has been increased in number and interest by the addition of many works 
ot fiction by leading novelists of the day, whose productions have hitherto appeared in 
more expensive form [see numbers 493 to 595 of accompanying list]. The series has 
been long before the public, and its interest and sterling value have been generally 
recognized. Well-informed readers of fiction have considered the appearance of a 
novel in this series to be always a guarantee of merit. 


PKIOE 


1. Pelham. By Bulwer $0 40 

2. The Disowned. By Buhver 50 

3. Devereux. By Buhver 40 

4. Paul Clifford. By Bulwer 40 

5. Eugene Aram. By Bulwer 35 

6. The Last Days of Pompeii. By Bulwer 25 

7. The Czarina. By Mrs. Hofland 40 

8. Rienzi. By Bulwer 40 

9. Self-Devotion. By Miss Campbell 30 

10. The Nabob at Home 35 

11. .Ernest Maltravers. By Bulwer 35 

12. Alice; or, The Mysteries. By Bulwer 35 

13. The Last of the Barons. By Bulwer 50 

14. Forest Days. By James 40 

15. Adam Brown, the Merchant. By II. Smith ... 35 

1G. Pilgrims of the Rhine. By Bulwer 20 

17. The Home. By Miss Bremer 35 

18. The Lost Ship. By Captain Neale 4<> 

19. The False Heir. By James 40 

20. The Neighbors. By Miss Bremer 35 

21. Nina. By Miss Bremer 35 

22. The President’s Daughters. By Miss Bremer. . 20 

23. The Banker’s Wife. By Mrs. Gore 35 

24. The Birthright. By Mrs. Gore 20 

25. New Sketches of Every-day Life. By Miss Bremer 35 

2G. Arabella Stuart. By James 35 

27. The Grumbler. By Miss Pickering 35 

28. The Unloved One. By Mrs. Hofland 40 

29. Jack of the Mill. By William llowitt 20 

30. The Heretic. By Lajetchnikoff 40 

31. The Jew. By Spindier 50 

32. Arthur. By Sue 40 

33. Chats worth. By Ward 30 

34. The Prairie Bird. By C. A. Murray 50 

35. Amy Herbert. By Miss Sewell 35 

36. Rose d’Albret. By James 40 

37. The Triumphs of Time. By Mrs. Marsh 40 

3S. The II Family. By Miss Bremer 40 

39. The Grandfather. By Miss Pickering 30 

40. Arrah Neil. By James 35 

41. The Jilt 35 

42. Tales from the German 25 

43. Arthur Arundel. By II. Smith 40 

44. Agincourt. By James 40 

45. The Regent’s Daughter 35 

46. The Maid of Honor 25 

47. Safia. By De Beauvoir 25 

4S. Look to the End. By Mrs. Ellis 40 

49. The Improvisatore. By Andersen 30 

50. The Gambler’s Wife. By Mrs. Grey 40 

5k Veronica. By Zscliokke 25 

52. Zoe. By Miss Jewsbury 35 

53. Wyoming 30 

54. De Rohan. By Sue 40 

55. Self. By the Author of ‘‘Cecil” 50 

56. The Smuggler. By James 50 

57. The Breach of Promise 35 

5S. Parsonage of Mora. By Miss Bremer 20 

59. A Chance Medley. By T. C. Grattan 35 

60. The White Slave 50 

Gt. The Bosom Friend. By Mrs. Grey 35 

G2. Amaury. By Dumas 25 

03. The Author’s Daughter. By Mary llowitt. . . . 20 

G4. Only a Fiddler! &c. By Andersen 50 

G5. The Whiteboy. By Mrs. Hall 40 

GG. The Foster-Brother. Edited by Leigh Hunt.. . 40 

67. Love and Mesmerism. By H. Smith 50 

G8. Ascanio. By Dumas 50 

69. Lady of Milan. Edited by Mrs. Thomson 50 

70. The Citizen of Prague 60 

71. The Royal Favorite. By Mrs. Gore 35 

72. The Queen of Denmark. By Mrs. Gore 35 

73. The Elves, Ac. ByTieck 40 

74. 75. The Step-Mother. By James 60 

76. Jessie’s Flirtations 30 


PRICE 

77. Chevalier d’Har mental. By Dumas $0 35 

78. Peers and Parvenus. By Mrs. Gore 35 

79. The Commander of Malta. By Sue 25 

80. The Female Minister , 25 

81. Emilia Wyndham. By Mrs. Marsh 40 

82. The Bush-Ranger. By Charles Row croft 40 

S3. The Chronicles of Clovernook 20 

84. Genevieve. By Lamartine 20 

S5. Livonian Tales 20 

86. Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh 20 

87. Father Darcy. By Mrs. Marsh 40 

88. Leontine. By Mrs. Maberly 40 

89. Heidelberg. By James 40 

90. Lucretia. By Bulwer. 40 

91. Beauchamp. By James 40 

92. 94. Fortescue. By Knowles- 60 

93. Daniel Denison, &c. By Mrs. Hofland 30 

95. Cinq-Mars. By De Vigny 40 

96. Woman’s Trials. By Mrs. S. C. Hall 50 

97. The Castle of Ehrenstein. By James 35 

98. Marriage. By Miss S. Ferrier 40 

99. Roland Cashel. By Lever. Illustrated 75 

100. Martins of Cro' Martin. By Lever 60 

101. Russell. By James 40 

102. A Simple Story. By Mrs. Inchbald 30 

103. Norman’s Bridge. By Mrs. Marsh 35 

104. Alamance 40 

105. Margaret Graham. By James 20 

106. The Wayside Cross. By E. II. Milman 20 

107. The Convict. By James 35 

108. Midsummer Eve. By Mrs. S. C. Hall 25 

109. Jane Eyre. By Currer Bell 40 

110. The Last of the Fairies. By James 20 

111. Sir Theodore Broughton. By James 40 

112. Self-Control. By Mary Brunton 50 

113. 114. Harold. By Bulwer 60 

115. Brothers and Sisters. By Miss Bremer 40 

116. Gowrie. By James 35 

117. A Whim and its Consequences. By James 40 

118. Three Sisters and Three Fortunes. By G. H. 

Lewes 50 

119. The Discipline of Life 40 

120. Thirty Years Since. By James 50 

121. Mary Barton. By Mrs. Gaskell 40 

122. The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By Thackeray 20 

1 23. The Forgery. By J ames 40 

124. The Midnight Sun. By Miss Bremer 20 

125,126. The Caxtons. By Bulwer 50 

127. Mordaunt Hall. By Mrs. Marsh 40 

128. My Uncle the Curate 40 

129. The Woodman. By James 50 

130. The Green Hand. A “ Short Yarn” 50 

131. Sidonia the Sorceress. By Meinhold 50 

132. Shirley. By Currer Bell 50 

133. The Ogilvies 35 

134. Constance Lyndsay. By G. C. II 30 

135. Sir Edward Graham. By Miss Sinclair 50 

136. Hands not Hearts. By Miss Wilkinson 30 

137. The Wilmingtons. By Mrs. Marsh 35 

138. Ned Allen. By D. Hannay 30 

139. Night and Morning. By Bulwer 50 

140. The Maid of Orleans 50 

141. Antonina. By Wilkie Collins 40 

142. Zanoni. By Bulwer 35 

143. Reginald Hastings. By Warburton 35 

144. Pride and Irresolution 35 

145. The Old Oak Chest. By James 40 

146. Julia Howard. By Mrs. Martin Bell 30 

147. Adelaide Lindsay. Edited by Mrs. Marsh 25 

148. Petticoat Government. By Mrs. Trollope 40 

149. The Luttrells. By F. Williams 35 

150. Singleton Fontenoy, R.N. By Hannay 40 

151. Olive. By the Author of u The Ogilvies” 35 

152. Henry Smeaton. By James 50 

153. Time, the Avenger. By Mrs. Marsh 35 


o 


Harper's Library of Select Hovels. 


PRICE 

HARPER’S Libravy of Select Novels — 
Continued. 


- PRICE 

HARPER’S Library of Select Novels — 
Continued. 


154. The Commissioner. By James $0 GO 

155. The Wife’s Sister. By Mrs. liubback 35 

156. The Gold Worshipers 35 

157. The Daughter of Night. By Fullom 35 

15S. Stuart of Dunleath. By Hon. Caroline Norton. 35 

159. Arthur Conway. 'By Captain E. H. Milman . . 40 

160. The Fate. By James 40 

161. The Lady and the Priest. By Mrs. Maberly. . . 35 

162. Aims and Obstacles. By James 50 

163. The Tutor’s Ward 30 

164. Florence Sackville. By Mrs. Burbury 50 

165. Ravenscliffe. By Mrs. Marsh. 40 

166. Maurice Tiernay. By Lever 50 

167. The Head of the Family. By Miss Mulock. ... 50 

16S. Darien. By War burton 35 

169. Falkenburg 50 

170. The Daltons. By Lever 75 

171. lvar; or, The Skjuts-Boy. By Miss Carlen... 35 

172. Pequinillo. By James 40 

173. Anna Hammer. By Temme 40 

174. A Life of Vicissitudes. By James 25 

175. Henry Esmond. By Thackeray 50 

176. 177. My Novel. By Bulwer 75 

17S. Katie Stewart 20 

179. Castle Avon. By Mrs. Marsh 40 

150. Agnes Sorel. By James 40 

151. Agatha’s Husband. By the Author of u Olive” 35 

182. Villette. By Currer Bell 50 

153. Lover’s Stratagem. By Miss Carlen 35 

154. Clouded Happiness. By Countess D’Orsay 30 

185. Charles Auchester. A Memorial 50 

186. Lady Lee’s Widowhood 40 

1S7. Dodd Family Abroad. By Lever 60 

155. Sir Jasper Carew. By Lever 50 

1S9. Quiet Heart 20 

190. Aubrey. By Mrs. Marsh 50 

191. Ticonderoga. By James 40 

192. Hard Times. By Dickens 25 

193. The Young Husband. By Mrs. Grey G5 

194. The Mother’s Recompense. By Grace Aguilar. 50 

195. Avillion, &c. By Miss Mulock 60 

196. North and South. By Mrs. Gaskell 40 

197. Country Neighborhood. By Miss Dupuy 40 

198. Constance Herbert. By Miss Jewsbury 30 

199. The Heiress of Haughton. By Mrs. Marsh 35 

200. The Old Dominion. By James 40 

201. John Halifax. By the Author of u Olive,” Ac. 50 

202. Evelyn M » ''ston. By Mrs. Marsh 35 

203. Fortunes of Glencore. By Lever 50 

204. Leonora d’Orco. By James 40 

205. Nothing New. By Miss Mulock 30 

206. The Rose of Asliurst. By Mrs. Marsh 35 

207. The Athelings. By Mrs. Olipliant 50 

20S. Scenes of Clerical Life ‘. . 50 

209. My Lady Ludlow. By Mrs. Gaskell 20 

210, 211. Gerald Fitzgerald. By Lever 40 

212. A Life for a Life. By Miss Mulock 40 

213. Sword and Gown. By Geo. Lawrence 20 

214. Misrepresentation. By Anna II. Drury 60 

215. The Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot 50 

216. One of Them. By Lever 50 

217. A Day’s Ride. By Lever. Illustrated 40 

21S. Notice to Quit. By Wills 40 

219. A Strange Story. Illustrated 50 

220. Brown, Jones, and Robinson. By Trollope 35 

221. Abel Drake’s Wife. By John Saunders 50 

222. Olive Blake’s Good Work. By J. C. Jenffreson. 50 

223. The Professor’s Lady. Illustrated 20 

224. Mistress and Maid. By Miss Mulock 30 

225. Aurora Floyd. By M. E. Braddon 40 

226. Barrington. By Lever 40 

227. Sylvia’s Lovers. By Mrs. Gaskell 40 

228. A First Friendship 25 

229. A Dark Night’s Woi’k. By Mrs. Gaskell 25 

230. Countess Gisela. By E. Marlitt. Illustrated. . 30 

231. St. Olave’s. By Eliza Tabor 40 

232. A Point of Honor 30 

233. Live it Down. By Jeaffreson 60 

234. Martin Pole. By Saunders 30 

235. Mary Lyndsay. By Lady Ponsonby 40 

236. Eleanor’s Victory. By M. E. Braddon. Ill’s. 60 

237. Rachel Ray. By Trollope 35 

238. John Marchmont’s Legacy. By M. E. Braddon 50 

239. Annis Warleigh’s Fortunes. By Holme Lee. . . 50 

240. The Wife’s Evidence. By Wills 40 

241. Barbara’s History. By Amelia B. Edwards. ... 50 

242. Cousin Phillis 20 

243. What will he do with It? By Bulwer 75 

244. The Ladder of Life. By Amelia B. Edwards. . . 25 


245. Denis Duval. By Thackeray. Illustrated.... 

246. Maurice Dering. By Geo. Lawrence 

247. Margaret Denzil’s History 

248. Quite Alone. By George Augustus Sala. Ill’s. 

249. Mattie : a Stray 

250. My Brother’s Wife. By Amelia B. Edwards.. . 

251. Uncle Silas. By J. S. Le Fanu 

252. Lovel the Widower. By Thackeray 

253. Miss Mackenzie. By Anthony Trollope 

254. On Guard. By Annie Thomas 

255. Theo Leigh. By Annie Thomas 

256. Denis Donne. By Annie Thomas 

257. Belial ! 

258. Carry’s Confession 

259. Miss Carew. By Amelia B. Edwards 

260. Hand and Glove. By Amelia B. Edwards . . . . 

261. Guy Deverell. By J. S. Le Fanu 

262. Half a Million of Money. By Amelia B. Edwards. 

Illustrated 

263. The Belton Estate. By Anthony Trollope 

264. Agnes. By Mrs. Olipliant 

265. Walter Goring. By Annie Thomas 

266. Maxwell Drewitt. By Mrs. J. II. Riddell 

267. The Toilers of the Sea. Bv Victor Hugo. Ill’s. . 

26S. Miss Marjoribanks. By Mrs. Olipliant 

269. True History of a Little Ragamuffin. By James 

Greenwood 

270. Gilbert Rugge. By the Author of “A First 

Friendship” 

271. Sans Merci. By Geo. Lawrence 

272. Pliemie Keller. By Mrs. J. II. Riddell 

273. Land at Last. By Edmund Yates 

274. Felix Holt, the Radical. By George Eliot 

275. Bound to the Wheel. By John Saunders 

276. All in the Dark. By J. S. Le Fanu 

277. Kissing the Rod. By Edmund Yates 

278. The Race for Wealth. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell. . 

279. Lizzie Lorton of Greyrigg. By Mrs. Linton. . . 

250. The Beauclercs, Father and Son. By C. Clarke 

251. Sir Brook Fossbrooke. By Charles Lever 

282. Madonna Mary. By Mrs. Oliphant 

2S3. Cradock Nowell. By R. 1). Blackmore 

284. Bernthal. From the German of L. Miihlbach. 

285. Rachel’s Secret 

286. The Claverings. By Anthony Trollope. Ill’s. . 
2S7. The Village on the Cliff. By Miss Thackeray. 

Illustrated 

28S. Played Out. By Annie Thomas 

289. Black Sheep. By Edmund Yates 

290. Sowing the Wind. By E. Lynn Linton 

291. Nora and Archibald Lee 

292. Raymond’s Heroine 

293. Mr. Wynyard’s Ward. By Holme T.ee 

294. Alec Forbes. By George Macdonald 

295. No Man’s Friend. ByF. W. Robinson 

296. Called to Account. By Annie Thomas 

297. Caste 

29S. The Curate’s Discipline. By Mrs. Eiloart 

299. Circe. By Babington White 

300. The Tenants of Malory. By J. S. Le Fanu... 

301. Carlyon’s \ r ear. By James Payn 

302. The Waterdale Neighbors 

303. Mabel’s Progress 

304. Guild Court. By Geo. Macdonald. Ill’s 

305. The Brothers’ Bet. By Miss Carlen 

306. Playing for High Stakes. By Annie Thomas. Ill’d 

307. Margaret’s Engagement 

30S. One of the Family. By James Payn 

309. Five Hundred Pounds Reward. By a Ban ister.. 

310. Brownlows. By Mrs. Oliphant 

311. Charlotte’s Inheritance. By MBs Braddon. . . 

312. Jeanie’s Quiet Life. By Eliza Tabor 

313. Poor Humanity. By F. W. Robinson 

314. Brakespeare. By Geo. A. Lawrence. With an 

Illustration 

315. A Lost Name. By J. S. I e Fanu 

316. Love or Marriage ? By W. Black 

317. Dead-Sea Fruit. By Miss Braddon. Illustrated. 

31S. The Dower House. By Annie Thomas 

319. The Bramleighs of Bishop’s Folly. By Lever. 

Illustrated 

320. Mildred. By Georgiana M. Craik 

321. Nature’s Nobleman. By the Author of tk Ra- 

chel’s Secret” 

322. Kathleen. By the Author of “ Raymond’s He- 

roine.” 

323. That Boy of Norcott’s. Bv Charles Lever, ill’s * 

324. In Silk Attire. By W. Black 

325. Hetty. By Henry Kingsley 


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35 

50 

25 

35 

20 


Harper's Library of Select Novels. 


3 


1’RICE 


HARPER’S Library of Select Novels — 
Continued. 

326. False Colors. 13y Annie Thomas $0 40 

327. Meta’s Faith. By Eliza Tabor 35 

328. Found Dead. By James Payn 25 

329. Wrecked in Port. By Edmund Yates 3f 

330. The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 

331. A Beggar on Horseback. By James Payn 35 

332. Kitty. By M. Betham-Edwards 35 

333. Only Herself. By Annie Thomas 35 

334. Hirell. By John Saunders 40 

335. Under Foot. By Alton Clyde. Illustrated... 40 

336. So Runs the World Away. By Mrs. A. C. Steele. 35 

337. Baffled. By Julia Goddard. Illustrated 50 

33S. Beneath the Wheels 50 

339. Stern Necessity. By F. W. Robinson 40 

340. Gwendoline’s II arvest. By James Payn 25 

341. Kilmeny. By William Black 35 

342. John: A Love Story. By Mrs. Oliphant 25 

343. True to Herself. By F. W. Robinson 50 

344. Veronica. By the Author of “ Mabel's Progress” 50 

345. A Dangerous Guest. By the Author of ‘‘Gil- 

bert Rugge” 30 

346. Estelle Russell 50 

347. The Heir Expectant. By the Author of “ Ray- 

mond’s Heroine” 40 

34S. Which is the Heroine? 40 

349. The Vivian Romance. By Mortimer Collins. . 35 

350. In Duty Bound. Illustrated 35 

351. The Warden and Barchester Towers. By A. 

Trollope 60 

352. From Thistles — Grapes ? By Mrs. Eiloart. ... 35 

353. A Siren. By T. A. Trollope 40 

354. Sir Harry Hotspur of llumblethwaite. By 

Anthony Trollope. Illustrated 35 

355. Earl’s Dene. By R. E. Francillon 50 

356. Daisy Nichol. By Lady Hardy 35 

357. Bred in the Bone. By James Payn. Ill’s.... 40 

35S. Fenton’s Quest. By Miss Braddon. Illustrated. . 50 

359. Monarch of Miucing-Lane. By W. Black. Ill’s. 50 

360. A Life’s Assize. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell 40 

361. Anteros. By the Author of “Guy Livingstone.” 40 

362. Her Lord and Master. By Mrs. Ross Church. . 30 

363. Won — Not Wooed. By James Payn 35 

364. For Lack of Gold. By Charles Gibbon 35 

365. Anne Furness 50 

366. A Daughter of Heth. By W. Black 35 

367. Durntou Abbey. By T. A. Trollope 40 

36S. Joshua Marvel. By B. L. Farjeon 40 

369. Lovels of Arden. By M. E. Braddon. Ill’s. 50 

370. Fair to See. By L. W. M. Lockhart 40 

371. Cecil’s Tryst. By James Payn 30 

372. Patty. By Katharine S. Macquoid 50 

373. Maud Mohan. By Annie Thomas 25 

374. Grif. By B. L. Farjeon 35 

375. A Bridge of Glass. By F. W. Robinson 30 

376. Albert Lunel. By Lord Brougham 50 

377. A Good Investment. By Wm. Flagg. Ill’s.. 35 

37S. A Golden Sorrow. By Mrs. Cashel Hoey 40 

379. Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 

380. Hope Deferred. By Eliza F. Pollard 30 

3S1. The Maid of Sker. By R. D. Blackmore 50 

382. For the King. By Charles Gibbon 30 

383. A Girl’s Romance, and Other Tales. By F. W. 

Robinson 30 

354. Dr. Wainwright’s Patient. By Edmund Yates. 35 

PS5. A Passion in Tatters. By Annie Thomas 50 

386. A Woman’s Vengeance. By James Payn 35 

387. Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. By W. Black. 50 

355. To the Bitter End. By Miss M. E. Braddon. Ill’s. 50 

389. Robin Gray. By Charles Gibbon 35 

390. Godolpliin. By Bulwer 35 

391. Leila. By Bulwer. Illustrated 25 

392. Kenelm Chillingly. By Lord Lytton. Ill’s.. 50 

393. The Hour and the Man. By Harriet Martineau 50 

394. Murphy’s Master. By James Payn 20 

395. The New Magdalen. By Wilkie Collins 30 

396. u ‘He Cometh Not,’ She Said.” By Annie 

Thomas.' 30 

397. Innocent. By Mrs. Oliphant. Illustrated 50 

3 >8. Too Soon. By Mrs. Macquoid 30 

399. Stranger^ and Pilgrims. By Miss Braddon. Ill’s. 50 

400. A Simpleton. By Charles Reade 35 

•101. The Two Widows. By Annie Thomas 25 

402. Joseph the Jew. By Miss V. W. Johnson 40 

403. Her Face was Her Fortune. By F. W. Robinson. 40 

404. A Princess of Thule. By W. Black 50 

405. Lottie Darling. By J. C. Jeaffreson 50 

406. The Blue I’ihbon. By Eliza Tabor 40 

407. Harry Ileafhcote of Gangoil. By A. Trollope. 

Illustrated 20 


TRIOS 

HARPER’S Library of Select Novels — 

4 Continued. 

408. Publicans and Sinners. By Miss Braddon. ..$0 50 

409. Colonel Dacre. By the Author of “Caste”... 35 

410. Through Fire and Water. By Frederick Talbot. 

Illustrated 20 

411. Lady Anna. By Anthony Trollope 30 

412. Taken at the Flood. By Miss Braddon 5 j 

413. At Her Mercy. By James Payn 30 

414. Ninety-Three. By Victor Hugo.. Ill’s 25 

415. For Love and Life. By Mrs. Oliphant 5> 

416. Doctor Thorne. By Anthony Trollope 50 

417. The Best of Husbands. By James Payn 25 

418. Sylvia’s Choice. By Georgiana M. Craik. ... 30 

419. A Sack of Gold. By Miss V. W. Johnson.... 55 

420. Squire Arden. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 

421. Lorna Doone. By R. D. Blackmore. Ill’s... 60 

422. The Treasure Hunters. By Geo. ManvilleFenn. 25 

423. Lost for Love. By Miss M. E. Braddon. Ill’s. 50 

424. Jack’s Sister. By Miss Dora Havers 50 

425. Aileen Ferrers. By Susan Morley 30 

426. The Love that Lived. By Mrs. Eiloart 30 

427. In Honor Bound. By Charles Gibbon 35 

42S. Jessie Trim. By B. L. Farjeon 35 

429. Hagarene. By George A. Lawrence 35 

430. Old Myddelton’s Money. By Mary Cecil Hay. 25 

431. At the Sign of the Silver Flagon. By B. L. Far- 

jeon 25 

432. A Strange World. By Miss Braddon 40 

433. Hope Meredith. By Eliza Tabor 35 

434. The Maid of Killeena. By William Black.... 40 

435. The Blossoming of an Aloe. By Mrs. lloey. . . 30 

436. Safely Married. By the Author of “ Caste.”.-. 25 

437. The Story of Valentine and his Brother. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 50 

43S. Our Detachment. By Katharine King 35 

439. Love’s Victory. By B. L. Farjeon 20 

440. Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Blackmore 50 

441. Walter’s Word. By James Payn 50 

442. Playing the Mischief. By J. W. De Forest... 60 

443. The Lady Superior. By Eliza F. Pollard.... 35 

444. Iseulte. By the Author of “Vera,” “Hotel du 

Petit St. Jean,” &c 30 

445. Eglantine. By Eliza Tabor 40 

446. Ward or Wife ? Illustrated 25 

447. Jean. By Mrs. Newman 35 

44S. The Calderwood Secret. By Miss V.W. Johnson 40 

449. Hugh Melton. By Katharine King. Ill’s.... 25 

450. Healey. 35 

451. Hostages to Fortune. By Miss Braddon. Ill’s. 50 

452. The Queen of Connaught 35 

453. Off the Roll. By Katharine King 50 

454. Halves. By James Payn 30 

455. The Squire’s Legacy. By Mary Cecil Hay. . . 25 

456. Victor and Vanquished. By Mary Cecil Hay. 25 

457. Owen Gwynne’s Great Work. By Lady Augusta 

Noel 30 

458. His Natural Life. By Marcus Clarke 50 

459. The Curate in Charge. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

460. Pausanias the Spartan. By Lord Lytton 25 

461. Dead Men’s Shoes. By Miss M. E. Braddon. . 40 

462. The Dilemma. By the Author of “ The Battle 

of Dorking.” 

463. Hidden Perils. By Mary Cecil Hay 25 

464. Cripps, the Carrier. By R. D. Blackmore. Ill’s. 50 

465. Rose Turquand. By Ellice Hopkins... 35 

466. As Long as She Lived. By F. W. Robinson. . . 50 

467. Israel Mort, Overman. Bv John Saunders 50 

468. Phoebe, Junior. By Mi’s. Oliphant 35 

469. A Long Time Ago. By Meta Orred 25 

470. The Laurel Bush. By the Author of “John 

Halifax, Gentleman.” Illustrated 25 

471. Miss Nancy’s Pilgrimage. By Virginia W. 

Johnson 40 

472. The Arundel Motto. By Mary Cecil Hay 25 

473. Azalea. By Cecil Clayton 30 

474. Daniel Deronda. By George Eliot 50 

475. The Sun-Maid. By the Author of “ Artiste.”.. 35 

476. Nora’s Love Test. By Mary Cecil Hay 25 

477. Joshua Haggard’s Daughter. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon. Illustrated 50 

478. Madcap Violet. By William Black 50 

479. From Dreams to Waking. By E. Lynn Linton. 20 

480. The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. By B. L. Farjeon 35 

481. Anne Warwick. By Georgiana M. Craik 25 

482. Weavers and Weft. By Miss Braddon 25 

453. The Golden Butterfly. By the Authors of 

“ When the Ship Comes Home," &c 40 

454. Juliet’s Guardian. By Mrs. II. Lovett Cameron. 

Illustrated £0 

455. Mar’s White Witch. By G. Douglas 50 


4 


Harper's Library of Select Novels. 


PRICE 

HARPER’S Library of Select Novels— 
Continued. 

4S6. Heaps of Money. By W. E. Norris $0 25 

487. The American Senator. By Anthony Trollope. 50 

48S. Mrs. Arthur. By Mrs. Oliphant 40 

4S9. Winstowe. By Mrs. Leith-Adams 25 

400. Marjorie Bruce’s Lovers. By Mary Patrick... 25 

401. Romola. By George Eliot. Illustrated 50 

402. Carita. By Mrs. Oliphant. Illustrated 50 

493. Middlemarch. By George Eliot 75 

494. For Her Sake. By F. W. Robinson. Ill’s.... 60 

495. Second-Cousin Sarah. By F.W. Robinson. Ill’s.. 50 

496. Little Kate Kirby. By F. W. Kobinson. Ill’s. 50 

497. Luttrell of Arran. By Charles Lever 60 

49S. Lord Kilgobbin. By Charles Lever. Ill’s. ... 50 

499. Tony Butler. By Charles Lever 60 

500. Breaking a Butterfly. By George A. Lawrence. 

Illustrated 65 

501. Mrs. Lirriper’s Legacy. By Charles Dickens . . 10 

502. The Mystery of Edwin Drood. By Charles 

Dickens. Illustrated 25 

503. The Parisians. By Bulwer. Illustrated 60 

504. Stone Edge. With an Illustration 20 

505. The Rule of the Monk. By Garibaldi 30 

506. Inside. By W. M. Baker. Illustrated 75 

507. Carter Quarterman. By W. M. Baker. Ill’s.. 60 

508. Three Feathers. By Wm. Black. Ill’s 50 

509. Bound to John Company. By Miss Braddon. 

Illustrated 50 

510. Birds of Prey. By Miss Braddon. Illustrated. 50 

511. The Prey of the Gods. By Mrs. Ross Church. 30 

512. The Woman in White. By Wilkie Collins. Ill’s. 60 

513. The Two Destinies. By Wilkie Collins. Ill’s. 35 

514. The Law and the Lady. By Wilkie Collins. Ill’s. 50 

515. Poor Miss Finch. By Wilkie Collins. Ill’s... 60 

516. No Name. By Wilkie Collins. Illustrated... 60 


517. The Moonstone. By Wilkie Collins. Ill’s 60 

518. Man and Wife. By Wilkie Collins. Ill’s 60 

519. Armadale. By Wilkie Collins. Illustrated... 60 

520. My Daughter Elinor. By Frank Lee Benedict. 80 

521. John Worthington’s Name. By F. Lee Benedict 75 

522. Miss Dorothy’s Charge. By F. Lee Benedict. . 75 

523. Miss Van Kortland. By Frank Lee Benedict. . 60 

524. St. Simon’s Niece. By Frank Lee Benedict... 60 

525. Mr. Vaughan’s Heir. By Frank Lee Benedict. 75 

526. Captain Brand. By H. A. Wise. Illustrated. 75 

527. Sooner or Later. By Shirley Brooks. Ill’s. . . 80 

528. The Gordian Knot. By Shirley Brooks. With 

an Illustration 50 


529. The Silver Cord. By Shirley Brooks. Ill’s... 75 

530. Cord and Creese. By James De Mille. Ill’s... 60 

531. The Living Link. By James De Mille. Ill’s.. 60 

532. The American Baron. By James De Mille. Ill’s. 50 

533. The Cryptogram. By James De Mille. Ill’s... 75 

534. The King of No-Land. By B. L. Farjeon. Ill’s. 25 


535. An Island Pearl. By B. L. Farjeon. Ill’s 30 

536. Blade-o’ -Grass. By B. L. Farjeon. Illustrated. 30 

537. Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. By B. L. Far- 

jeon. Illustrated 35 

538. Golden Grain. By B. L. Farjeon. Illustrated. 35 

539. London’s Heart. By B. L. Faijeon. Illustrated. 60 

540. Shadows on the Snow. By B. L. Farjeon. Ill’s. 30 

541. Not Dead Yet. By John Cordy Jeaffreson. ... 60 

542. The Island Neighbors. By Mrs. A. B. Black- 

well. Illustrated 60 

543. The Woman’s Kingdom. By Miss Mulock. Ill’s. 60 

544. Hannah. By Miss Mulock. With Three Ill’s. . 35 

545. A Brave Lady. By Miss Mulock. Illustrated. 60 

546. My Mother and I. By Miss Mulock. Illustrated. 40 

547. Chronicles of Carlingford. By Mrs. Oliphant 60 

543. A Son of the Soil. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 

549. The Perpetual Curate. By Mrs. Oliphant. .. . 50 

550. Old Kensington. By Miss Thackeray. Ill’s.. 60 

551. Miss Angel. By Miss Thackeray. Illustrated. 50 

552. Miss Thackeray’s Miscellaneous Writings. Ill’s. 90 

553. Vanity Fair. By W. M. Thackeray. Illustrated. 80 

554. The History of Pendennis. By W. M. Thack- 

eray. Illustrated 75 

555. The Virginians. By W. M. Thackeray. Ill’s.. 90 

556. The Newcomes. By W. M. Thackeray. Ill’s.. 90 


PRICE 


HARPER’S Library of Select Novels — 
Continued. 

557. The Adventures of Philip. By W. M. Thack- 
eray. Illustrated $0 60 

555. Henry Esmond, and Lovel the Widower. By 

W. M. Thackeray. Illustrated 60 

559. Put Yourself in His Place. By Charles Reade. 

Illustrated 50 

560. A Terrible Temptation. By Charles Reade,, Ill’s 40 

561. The Cloister and the Hearth. By Charles Reade. 50 

562. The Wandering Heir. By Charles Reade. Ill’s. 25 

563. Hard Cash. By Charles Reade. Illustrated . . 50 

564. Griffith Gaunt. By Charles Reade. Ill’s 40 

565. It is Never Too Late to Mend. By Charles Reade. 50 

566. Love Me Little, Love Me Long. By Charles 

Reade. With an Illustration 35 

567. Foul Play. By Charles Reade 35 

56S. White Lies. By Charles Reade 40 

569. Peg Woffington, Christie Johnstone, and Other 

Stories. By Charles Reade 50 

570. A Woman-Hater. By Charles Reade. With 

Two Illustrations 60 

571. Orley Farm. By Anthony Trollope. Ill’s SO 

572. The Vicar of Bullhampton. By Autliony Trol- 

lope. Illustrated 80 

573. The Way We Live Now. By Anthony Trol- 

lope. Illustrated 90 

574. Phineas Finn. By Anthony Trollope. Ill’s.. 75 

575. Phineas Redux. By Anthony Trollope. Ill’s.. 75 

576. Ralph the Heir. By Anthony Trollope. Ill’s. 75 

577. The Eustace Diamonds. By Anthony Trollope. SO 

578. The Last Chronicle of Barset. By Anthony 

Trollope. Illustrated 90 

579. The Golden Lion of Granpere. By Anthony 

Trollope. Illustrated 40 

550. The Prime Minister. By Anthony Trollope . . 60 

551. Can Y r ou Forgive Her? By Anthony Trol- 

lope. Illustrated 80 

552. He Knew He Was Right. By Anthony Trol- 

lope. Illustrated 80 

583. The Small House at Allington. By Anthony 

Trollope. Illustrated ^ 75 

5S4. The Sacristan’s Household. By Mrs. F. E. Trol- 
lope. Illustrated 50 

535. Lindisfarn Chase. By T. A. Trollope. 60 

556. Hidden Sin. Illustrated 60 

557. My Enemy’s Daughter. By Justin McCarthy. 

Illustrated 50 

558. My Husband’s Crime. By M. R. Housekeeper. 

Illustrated 50 

559. Stretton. By Henry Kingsley 35 

500. Ship Ahoy ! By G. M. Fenn. Illustrated 35 

591. Debenham’s Vow. By Amelia B. Edwards. Ill’d. 50 

592. Wives and Daughters. By Mrs. Gaskell. Il- 

lustrated 60 

593. Recollections of Eton. Illustrated 35 

594. Under the Ban. By M. l’Abbe * * * go 

595. The Rape of the Gamp. By C. W. Mason. Il- 

lustrated 75 

596. Erema ; or, My Father’s Sin. By R. D. Black- 

more 50 

597. What He Cost Her. By James Payn 40 

59S. Green Pastures and Piccadilly. By Wm. Black 50 

599. A Young Wife’s Story. By Harriette Bowra.. 25 

600. A Jewel of a Girl. By the Author of “ Queenie.” 35 

601. An Open Verdict. By Miss M. E. Braddon. .. 35 

602. A Modern Minister. Vol. I. Illustrated 35 

603. A Modern Minister. Vol. II. Illustrated.... 40 

604. Young Musgrave. By Mrs. Oliphant 40 

605. Two Tales of Married Life. By Georgiana M. 

Craik and M. C. Stirling 30 

606. The Last of the Haddons. By Mrs. Newman. 25 

607. The Wreck of the “Grosvenor” 30 

608. By Proxy. By James Payn 35 

609. By Celia’s Arbor. By Besant and Rice 5Q 

610. Deceivers Ever. By Mrs. Cameron 30 

611. Less Black than We’re Painted. By James Payn. 35 

612. Mine i3 Thine. By L.W. M. Lockhart 40 

613. The Primrose Path. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 

614. Macleod of Dare. By Wm. Black. Ill’d 60 


Cp-cV^w-**- ,Uj aim 

A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 


OR 


BUYING A TITLE 


& Nmwl 



HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 
1880 


ir 






^ ^ c 

r 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by 
HARPER & BROTHERS, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


CONTENTS 


TAGF. 

I. 

The Princess makes her DebCt 9 


BOOK I. 

NEHEMIAH METH LEY'S MONEY. 


CHAPTER I. 

A Village Millionnaire 17 

CHAPTER II. 

John Winter visits an Old House 28 

CHAPTER III. 

Tiie Robe of Gold 36 

CHAPTER IV. 

John Winter finds a New Master 40 


PAGE 


CHAPTER II. 

A Bunch of Roses 79 

CHAPTER III. 

The Old Sculptor’s Pupil 83 

CHAPTER IV. 

Prince Charming 88 

CHAPTER V. 

A Mediterranean Watering-place 94 

CHAPTER VI. 

TnE Evening of the Kings 101 

CHAPTER VII. 

Winning a Title 109 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The Honey-moon 114 


BOOK II. 

A LEAF OF CONTINENTAL SOCIETY. 


CHAPTER I. 

Mrs. General Jefferson 45 

CHAPTER II. 

TnE Three Fates 52 

CHAPTER III. 

Gossip 61 

CHAPTER IV. 

John Winter’s Model 67 


BOOK IV. 

MARRIED LIFE. 

CHAPTER I. 

Difference of Race 117 

CHAPTER II. 

A Second Little Affair of the Count 


Guigione 125 

CHAPTER III. 

Albert Dennis proves a Rival 133 


BOOK III. 

THE SPRING-TIME OF CELIA BAYARD. 

CHAPTER I. 

Holy Thursday 


CHAPTER IV. 


The Romance of a Loggia 139 

CHAPTER V. 

First Love 146 


8 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


CHAPTER VI. 

Two American Students 151 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Birth of a Princeling 158 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Sunday Afternoon in the Boboli Gar- 


dens 161 

CHAPTER IX. 

Before the Foot-lights 170 


PAGE 

BOOK Y. 

HANNAH STORE SPEAKS. 


CHAPTER I. 

Fra Angelico’s “Angels” 178 

CHAPTER II. 

TnE Snow- Woman 182 

CHAPTER III. 

A Cup of Tea 185 

CHAPTER IV. 

“And the Years Glide by” 191 






% • 


♦ 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

OR, 

BUYING A TITLE. 


i. 

THE PRINCESS MAKES HER DEB^T. 

In tlie month of June, Florence, the “ City 
of Flowers,” was celebrating her annual fes- 
tival in honor of St. John the Baptist. 

A June day possesses a charm in all lands, 
and has been immortalized by poets in all 
languages. In Tuscany the mere words 
gain a meaning not readily discovered 
elsewhere. June is here the gorgeous 
prime of early, verdant freshness, fed by 
bountiful rains and melting snow-torrents ; 
nature awakens to a tropical luxuriance in 
the heat of the sun before the long, monot- 
onous summer drought sets in, parching to 
gray dust the vineyards and meadows. 

A glorious sunrise had greeted St. John’s 
dawn with tender hues of violet and daffo- 
dil, on the slopes of encircling Apennines. 
At nine o’clock the Baptistery’s bronze doors 
had been opened to reveal the magnificent 
silver table of the saint, exhibited only on 
this day. The temporary altar sparkled 
with myriads of tapers, and was guarded by 
soldiers with drawn swords — a point of 
light in the mysterious gloom of this tem- 
ple, with its ribbed waves of pavement, and 
the ranks of imprisoned souls in the mosa- 
ics of the arched vault far above imploring 
release of the majestic Christ on his golden 
height of throne; 

A cloudless noon had greeted St. John’s 
Day when the river Arno, previously dwin- 
dled to a mere thread, wending between 
shallow banks of pebbles, suddenly rushed 
down on the town in a tawny wave of pent- 
up waters, demolishing the public baths, 
sweeping through the chain of bridges — 
Ponte alle Grazie, Ponte Yecchio, with its 


quaint shops of the Jewellers’ Guild, San- 
ta Trinity, and Ponte alia Carraja — then 
flooded the channel beyond from bank to 
bank. Gracious interposition of Providence 
for the city of Florence ! The river Arno 
should be full on the fete of the Baptist, to 
bring good-luck to the citizens. Accord- 
ingly, it was full, either by the direct mira- 
cle of a flood, or the cutting of a dike up 
the valley. The lame and sick w'ere free 
to hurl themselves into the rapid current, 
where bronzed shoulders and black heads, 
worthy of river-gods, were sporting in mad 
glee, buoyed up by branches of trees and 
logs swept along from the country. Sure- 
ly the most seductive superstition linger- 
ing in the human breast is that of entering 
the healing waters of a sacred river. To 
wash and be whole was the Biblical injunc- 
tion, after the angel’s wing had touched the 
pool. The Amo sparkled and rippled in 
the light breeze, and the Florentine turned 
to it with delight — a treacherous stream 
which had cradled his infancy, and might 
yet be his grave. 

Now the evening had come, the hour of 
illumination, with a band of music in each 
public square, and fireworks on the bridge 
of Alla Carraja. 

True to the instincts of Southern races re- 
joicing in the night, crowds began to emerge 
from narrow streets only when the sunset 
had ceased to tinge the sky with all those 
indescribable gradations of color peculiar 
to the Italian summer, from turquoise-blue 
to crimson on the horizon, where the ram- 
part of hills was fading from a first efful- 
gence of light to purple and velvet gray 
tints in the soft twilight. In one direction 
the tower of Galileo became gloomy, and 


10 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


black, and remote — a lonely sentinel on the 
hill-top. On the other side Fiesole crown- 
ed her height above the blooming valley- 
world, still bathed in a warm radiance of 
blended rose, citron, and saffron hues, which 
converted the hoary old citadel into the 
semblance of a fairy city of cloud-land. An 
exile of the North might well recall, in such 
a scene, the lines of Mrs. Browning on the 
Court Lady : 

“ She smiled, like Italy, on him ; 

He dreamed in her face, and died.” 

The crowd surged forth into the thor- 
oughfares, and the stars became visible 
one by one, while the full moon ascended 
the heavens, mocking at the feeble tapers 
kindled by man’s hand below. 

John Winter stood in his ovfllfroom at 
the top of an old house in the Oltz’ Arno 
quarter. The young man was not without 
pretensions to good -looks and a certain 
easy grace of carriage ; but on the present 
occasion he appeared wholly at disadvan- 
tage. He was flushed, and ill at ease. He 
wore a dress-coat which did not belong to 
him, and was narrow across the back, and 
held in his hand a pair of new lemon-col- 
ored kid gloves. 

“Absurd!” he exclaimed, in a tone of 
helpless indignation. “ I have never been 
in society. I shall not know what to do 
with myself. Why did this fashionable 
lady invite me instead of you, Albert Den- 
nis ?” 

Albert Dennis, fellow -pupil in the stu- 
dio of Abraham Blackwood, shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“ I did not make the bust of the American 
princess, and you did, caro mio ,” he replied, 
in his airy fashion, which now veiled pique 
and ill-humor. “ She has married into the 
nobility, and you must rise with her, I sup- 
pose.” 

“Nonsense! We were as remote as the 
poles before,” said John Winter, the flush 
deepening in his cheek. 

Albert Dennis laughed. The dress-coat 
belonged to him, and became him. As a 
cosmopolitan he was at ease in all society, 
while this big, shy John Winter would in- 
evitably commit some blunder in a brill- 
iant salon. Was there not an element of 
satisfaction to be derived from this reflec- 
tion ? He had been ignored by the fash- 
ionable lady. Well, let those laugh who 
win. Albert Dennis, true to his nature, 
smiled, with gall and bitterness in his heart. 

John Winter descended the dark stone 


stairs of his abode, and soon emerged on 
the Arno. Already the river-banks twin- 
kled with garlands of tinted lamps, which 
cast reflections in the stream below like 
the golden pipes of an organ. The houses 
of the Lung’ Arno were decorated in honor 
of the fete with lanterns, transparencies, 
and inscriptions in letters of flame. John 
Winter saw the palace to which he had 
been invited, wearing for a shield on its 
dark surface a harp, which flashed and 
quivered in tiny gas jets, as if inviting the 
votaries of pleasure to touch its strings. 

Desperation took possession of the young 
sculptor at the sight of this stately res- 
idence, with its illuminated harp. He 
thrust the new gloves into his pocket, in- 
spired by a sudden resolution not to sub- 
mit to the torture of presenting himself to 
the cool scrutiny of the beau-monde. Who 
would miss him ? Doubtless, Madame 
Landeck, the hostess, had completely for- 
gotten his existence. He belonged to the 
people, and would share their pleasures on 
this night. The beautiful city was his 
adopted home, and he could wander about 
her streets free and happy. A fig for a 
dress-coat (especially when too small for 
the wearer) and etiquette ! The old mas- 
ter, Abraham Blackwood, had urged him 
to accept this invitation, and not fail in 
life where he had failed. To be known, 
praised, perhaps made a fashion, is the vi- 
tal breath of young genius — the precious 
oil feeding the lamp. Fame and success 
were remote echoes in his ear, as he cross- 
ed the bridge and plunged into the throng 
on the wide Via Tornabuoni beyond, where 
the cafes were brilliantly lighted at this 
hour. He was casting away his opportu- 
nity of entering life. He knew it, and re- 
joiced. He determined to merge his own 
w T ill in that of the populace, and suffer him- 
self to be drifted on the tide. This popu- 
lace, embodying New Italy, was listless, 
apathetic, depressed, and often desperate. 
The Tuscan proverb was here verified: 
“An empty sack cannot stand upright.” 
Hunger, the heaviest burden of taxation 
known, lack of work, had each set a seal 
on the face of the Florence poor, yet all 
flocked forth to a festa. 

John Winter was borne through the nar- 
row Via Porta Rossa, then along the ever- 
turbulent Via Calzuoli, where the moon’s 
rays touched the statues in their niches of 
Or’ San Michele, and thence into the Piaz- 
za of the Duomo. In this central square, 






11 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


the city’s heart, John Winter permitted the 
moving groups, always leisurely and inva- 
riably courteous, to take him where they 
would, if his eyes rested on the vast pile 
of Cathedral, adjacent Campanile, and Bap- 
tistery. What a magical beauty these 
structures gained from the purple twilight 
and summer moon ! The snowy fretwork 
of arched portals became silvery in con- 
trast with the deep surrounding shadows ; 
the shaft of Giotto’s Campanile blended to 
ivory and pearl in the soft atmosphere; 
Ghiberti’s bronze doors of Paradise had 
closed on the splendor of the Baptist’s sil- 
ver table, but gained that mysterious pow- 
er, in association, which forms a link be- 
tween the city’s mighty past and impov- 
erished present. Far above a spark ran 
around the dome, until the summit wore a 
crown of light, and became a church of 
snow, with a tiara of jewels gleaming 
against the blue sky. Simultaneously the 
roof of the Baptistery and the Campanile 
added their lustre of flickering lamps. 
The crowd murmured a gentle approba- 
tion. 

John Winter, ever a dreamer, heeded 
„ none of these pretty decorations, which 
become even effective at a distance. The 
ghostly band of great men who wrought 
so long ago the statues and pictures which 
made him fit to weep in contemplating 
their perfection, again peopled this spot. 
They passed from one shadowy door to 
another of the sacred edifice. He was the 
ignorant child of the nineteenth century in 
their presence. These made the marble 
bloom in flowers beneath their fingers, and 
reared the arches . of vast temples with 
equal ease. To them no task was humble, 
in fashioning the gold of the workshop, as 
apprentices, while no conception was too 
lofty for superhuman undertaking. He be- 
held the face of Giotto, the aquiline profile 
of Dante, Gimabue in his peaked hood ; the 
pensive, searching gaze of Leonardo da Vin- 
ci rested on him; Raphael smiled in the 
joyous prime of an immortal youth; and 
Michael Angelo frowned in stem and sor- 
rowful old age. Donatello, Brunelleschi, 
and Benvenuto Cellini were there; Fra 
Angelico beamed down from his own 
ranks of angels. The ghostly band trav- 
ersed the piazza on another night, com- 
memorative of San Giovanni Battista, when 
the stars gleamed and the moon shone as 
in their day — their century. They brush- 
ed the young sculptor with their garments, 


and strove to minister to his desperate need 
of their support. He felt their presence 
in a rapture of joy, in keenest agony of 
pain, seeking blindly to grasp the clew 
they would give him. Then the crowd 
swept him back along the Via Calzuoli to 
the Piazza della Signoria. 

Here the change of scene was no less sol- 
emn than beautiful. Moonlight flooded 
the whole square, sole illumination of the 
municipality, as the festival is a religious 
one ; and in Italy Church and State no lon- 
ger move hand-in-hand. The silvery beams 
bathed the Palazzo Vecchio in a glory, rest- 
ing full on the upper casements of Eleanore 
of Toledo and the shields of the city, which 
glittered beneath the battlements. The ad- 
jacent fountain of Neptune appeared veiled 
in the mist of falling waters, while the 
gleam of a white arm or a draped form in- 
dicated the famous statues of the Loggia 
di Lanzi. 

This sad moonlight seemed to weave a 
shadowy crown, like an aureole, on the spot 
where Savonarola was burnt, now that the 
floral tributes to his memory, which lasted 
so many hundred years, have ceased to dec- 
orate the stone. Farther back in the dark 
street the narrow windows glittered of the 
old Bargello, which had imprisoned pain, 
innocence, and every phase of madness in 
its day. 

John Winter found himself following the 
citizens beneath the galleries of the Uffizi 
out to the Arno once more. He could no 
longer escape. Protesting, he was whirled 
along, amidst the din of martial music and 
the hum of voices, until he paused before a 
palace with many open windows, and an il- 
luminated harp above the entrance. The 
flash of colored fires bewildered and daz- 
zled him. He leaned against the wall. 

The Arno and its banks presented a 
charming aspect as the night deepened. 
All life, all light, and all merriment had 
centred here. Overhead the moon still 
climbed the starry heavens — that firmament 
of such marvellous brilliancy, studied by 
Galileo in his lonely tower ; below, the riv- 
er reflected its banks on a shield of crystal. 
The three arches of the Trinity bridge were 
outlined by strings of milky globes. The 
Ponte alia Carraja was lost in sweeping 
fans of golden fire — serpents, fountains, wav- 
ering rockets, varied by sharp explosions, 
which scattered sheaves of colored balls in 
all directions. 

At this moment a carriage appeared. It 


12 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

was a low phaeton, containing a lady and a 
gentleman. No vehicles were permitted on 
the Lung’ Arno at this point, owing to the 
danger to a closely-packed multitude; yet 
these horses advanced slowly, as the bow 
of a ship parts a wave, guided by the warn- 
ing cries of the coachman, and an officious 
gendarme in a cocked hat. The equi- 
page paused before the palace with the 
harp, where John Winter stood, and the 
superb horses, in their glittering harness, 
the cream-colored liveries of the servants 
were visible to all. 

“ Look !” exclaimed the lady, with a 
childish delight in the spectacle, and paus- 
ing in the act of descending from the car- 
riage. 

She was a slender, graceful girl, her nat- 
ural beauty heightened by hajjpiness. Her 
dress, of white satin and lace, billowed in 
soft folds over the side of the phaeton ; her 
blonde hair was adorned with stars of dia- 
monds and pearls; the same gems sparkled 
on her neck and arms. 

Oh, the pride of life, and youth, and con- 
scious power, with diamonds and pearls in 
the hair ! Oh, the joy of being a princess 
and a bride ! 

The crowd recognized her, and murmur- 
ed, “ Bellissima 1” 

The Florentine crowd, however listless, 
is ever ready to bestow its admiration on a 
pretty woman, with an intuitive perception 
of beauty peculiar to the race, and especial- 
ly when her natural charms are enhanced 
by satin, lace, and diamonds. Was not this 
fair girl the wife of the Prince del Giglio ? 

“ It is all so beautiful 1” said the princess, 
not unmindful of the interest she herself 
inspired. 

Her heart warmed toward the people. 
She would fain have scattered among them 
gold coin to make all happy, after the man- 
ner of those magnificent merchant princes, 
the Medici. 

The rockets and writhing serpents on the 
bridge had given place to a succession of 
pretty scenes. An open loggia, of pale, me- 
tallic blue, supported on a central shaft the 
crown of Italy. A garden, with dissolving 
shrubbery and fountains, changed to an 
emerald - green grotto. Finally, a temple 
was vividly outlined on the night, wreathed 
in rosy garlands, and surmounted by the 
lily, emblem of the city. 

“ Ecco il Giglio 1” cried the multitude. 

Then the princess sprung down from her 
carriage, and vanished through the entrance 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

with the harp. She still beheld the lily 
poised in flame above the bridge. Her 
head unconsciously assumed a more stately 
pose. The honor and the name of an old 
house, a race famous in history, had de- 
scended on her slender shoulders, even as 
those imperial mantles, heavy with gold 
embroideries, impose on fragile brides of 
Northern Czars the weight of a new dig- 
nity. 

The prince glanced at her and smiled, as 
they ascended the stairway bordered with 
plants. The smile did not trouble her. 
Everything seemed unreal, dazzling, strange 
to her, like the wavering lines of fire on the 
bridge. The lover-husband at her side was 
a reality, and this tranquil confidence suf- 
ficed. 

John Winter entered the house. He 
moved mechanically, thrusting his hands 
into the yellow gloves with such haste that 
he snapped off the buttons. 

The Princess del Giglio, returned from 
a wadding tour to Lake Como, made her 
debut as a bride in Florentine society this 
evening. John Winter, sculptor, received 
his first invitation out on the same occa- 
sion. Destiny had no more curious prank 
to play w r ith humanity than this circum- 
stance on St. John the Baptist’s fete. 

The young man entered the dreaded 
presence of fashion — a suite of lofty rooms, 
perfumed with flowers, and brilliantly il- 
luminated with wax -candles. He was 
vaguely conscious of the mingled sounds 
of music and laughter, of other men flitting 
about at ease in their dress-coats, and 
groups of ladies gathered in masses of va- 
riegated draperies ; then he beheld an awful 
space of polished floor, with his l^ostess 
standing on the other side. He must trav- 
erse this space alone. He heard another 
button drop from his already lacerated 
glove, and experienced an idiotic desire to 
stoop and search for it. If the music would 
increase in volume of sound ! If all these 
eyes would find other material for observa- 
tion besides himself in the borrowed rai- 
ment of Albert Dennis ! 

The hostess was a Russian lady of rank, 
married to an Austrian with a somewhat 
indefinable reputation of having once filled 
a diplomatic post in the East. Madame 
Landeck wore a crimson robe, wrought with 
curious embroideries suggestive of Oriental 
looms, and dull gold ornaments of Persian 
workmanship, which imparted a certain bar- 
baric appearance to her Calmuck physiog- 


13 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


nomy, with the narrow eyes and wide, smil- 
ing mouth. The fan she held was known 
to be the gift of the Czarina, while the mas- 
sive bracelet on her arm, studded with brill- 
iants, was equally celebrated, in her circle, 
as the souvenir of a Grand Duke. 

John Winter made his best bow to this 
graceful lady, who, in turn, presented him 
to Monsieur Landeck, a short, stout person, 
with pale, puffy face, surrounded by a blonde 
beard, and spectacles covering singularly 
opaque blue eyes. Then the young sculp- 
tor found a corner where he could observe 
the company unmolested. The gathering 
comprised the usual elements of the salon 
of a foreign resident in an Italian city. A 
few English, fewer Americans, a bevy of 
Italians, chatting in the harsh feminine 
Tuscan voice, an occasional Frenchman, 
chiefly of the Imperalist party of exiles, 
Germans and Russians. John Winter had 
no sooner withdrawn to his nook of obser- 
vation than the Prince and Princess del 
Giglio, guests of the evening, entered. The 
hostess hastened to receive them with out- 
stretched hands. 

They were a handsome couple, pausing 
beneath the Venetian chandelier to receive 
the congratulations of their friends. The 
prince, of well-knit form, possessed mani- 
fold attractions — regular features, soft, 
magnetic eyes, the small Tuscan head, and 
a brown beard, parted on the chin. The 
courtesy and amiability of his bearing were 
devoid of condescension, if a trifle indolent, 
while the whole man gained in easy grace 
of manner what he lacked in appearance 
of strength. He was an ideal of the draw- 
ing-room. Well might his young wife 
smile, blush, and turn, in response to a ca- 
ressing whisper in her ear, from him to any 
person indicated by this warning, desirous 
to please her husband’s world. 

The bride was greeted by a rustling of 
fans, and a movement among the draperies 
of the feminine ranks. John Winter, in his 
corner, unnoticed, unrecognized by the prin- 
cess, and curious spectator of the scene, re- 
ceived fragments of conversation which as- 
tonished and chilled him. He was not a 
fashionable man. 

“Who is she?” 

“ An American girl.” 

“ Is she rich ?” 

“ Of course.” 

“ I am told her father was a sutler in the 
camp during the late American war.” 

“A mistake, my dear. One hears so 


much gossip in a city like Florence, one 
never knows what to believe. I have it 
on the best authority — that of another 
American — her father was a pork merchant 
in Ohio, wherever Ohio may be.” 

“ Is Ohio a city ?” 

“ No ; I believe it is a State, or a territo- 
ry bordering on the Pacific Ocean.” 

“You are both in error. The fortune 
of the princess comes from Pennsylvania 
oil wells. 

“ No, from silver mines.” 

“ No, no ; her grandfather picked up rags 
in the streets of New York, and was a mi- 
ser.” 

“ I have heard that he built a big hotel.” 

“And I that he found a pirate’s treasure 
buried in his own garden. The grandfa- 
ther was a market-gardener in Boston.” 

“Doubtless the fortune has been exag- 
gerated.” 

“ Money will not come amiss to the Prince 
del Giglio. The coffers of the palace are 
fearfully impoverished. They say the Tas- 
so bust has been offered for private sale. 
A Manchester man went to see it the other 
day.” 

“ How sad ! The heavy taxation is ruin- 
ing the nobility as well as the lower class- 
es ; they contract such mortgages in order 
to keep up any style. Tuscany under the 
Grand Dukes was comparatively free and 
prosperous. For my part, give me the form 
of government which fills the purse and 
the soup-pot.” 

“ Do you consider her pretty ?” 

“Rather. Evidently she is dressed by 
Worth.” 

“ Her jewels are not extraordinary. Are 
they family heirlooms from America?” 

“ She is no match for him in beauty. 
The prince has such lovely eyes ! Did you 
ever observe his hand ? Ah, what a smile ! 
what grace of aristocratic bearing !” 

“ Hush ! they are approaching. At least 
her complexion is natural. How she 
blushes 1” 

A pause ensued. The chandeliers spar- 
kled, and the roses massed in urn or vase 
shed their perfumes on the warm air. Mu- 
sic pulsed abroad from an adjoining room, 
in harmonious modulations of sound, and 
an occasional couple were visible dancing. 
John Winter, puzzled and disturbed by 
comments of which he was the unwilling 
recipient, gazed in silence at the bright 
'parterre of human flowers before him. 
Blonde heads swayed toward jet-black 


14 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

tresses, or the powdered crown of a lady 
attired d la Marquise. What deadly poison 
of envy and malice these flowers distilled 
from their chalices, the young man thought, 
accepting in serious mood, because of his 
inexperience, the light gossip of society, 
which was to him fluent vacuity tinged 
with venom. Nay, did not the blonde 
head, the jet-black tresses, the crown d la 
Marquise , each, in turn, bend before the 
American princess, with such words of flat- 
tery as brought fresh roses to her happy 
face? Something stirred in the heart of 
John Winter apart from honest indigna- 
tion and surprise. His fellow - country- 
woman, princess and bride, seemed to him 
defenceless where all were armed with 
ready weapons. She was unmasked in a 
company which disguised its features in an 
impenetrable mask. 

A group of gentlemen stood near the 
window, their hats under their arms, twist- 
ing their mustaches, and gazing at vacan- 
cy. Their voices also reached John Win- 
ter from time to time. 

“Look at old Count Carmine Guigione. 
He must be in the seventh heaven to-night 
at the result of his labors. Yes, he is the 
small individual with the white mustache. 

“ Did he make the match ?” 

“Assuredly he did. He looked up the 
heiress at her banker’s. Lots of ‘ tin,’ I 
hear.” 

“ Her father sold cotton or made molas- 
ses at New Orleans, I believe.” 

“The prince’s gambling debts at the 
club are not inconsiderable, let me inform 
you.” 

“If it is true that Count Guigione is the 
mother’s chosen cavalier, the affair is all in 
the family. Ha, ha, ha !” 

“ What a tattler Major Pounceby is ! By 
Jove, I believe he spends his days on the 
corner of the Tornabuoni, collecting togeth- 
er every rumor of news which eddies about 
Yieusseux’s library !” 

“ I fancied the Prince del Giglio was to 
marry the Sheffield heiress, Miss Cutlery. 
That affair was on the tapis when I last 
visited Florence.” 

“Ah! he threw her over for the Ameri- 
can, mon brave. The latter is younger and 
prettier ; she affords more material for sen- 
timent, even in a mariage de convenance. 
How well she looks to-night !” 

“ She is a beauty.” 

“ Miss Cutlery must take her dot to Rome 
next season. She is sure to pick up some 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

poor devil of a government official from 
Piedmont or Lombardy, I should say.” 

“ She can become a convert, and get a 
cardinal to marry her into the Roman no- 
bility.” . 

“ Yes, that is the latest fashion for old 
girls.” 

“I fancied the noble houses of Giglio 
and Vallambroni were to be united in a 
marriage of the son and daughter. The 
Contessina has just returned from her con- 
vent : a plain little girl enough.” 

“Not so loud, my friend. She is here 
to-night, under her mother’s wing.” 

“ Oh, the alliance of the Giglio and the 
Vallambroni was a whim of the respective 
fathers, rendered impossible by the lack 
of dowry. Madame, the mother, will be 
obliged to seek a rich foreign husband for 
her daughter, just as the old Princess del 
Giglio has advertised her son in the matri- 
monial market.” 

“Does the bride dance the cotillion to- 
night ?” 

John Winter started and blushed. His 
hostess had touched him on the arm with 
her fan. 

“I have promised dear Lady Brown a 
cup of Russian chai. Will you escort her 
to the tea-room, Mr. Winter ?” said Madame 
Landeck, with her perpetual smile. 

The young sculptor bowed, and hasten- 
ed to comply with the request. 

Lady Brown placed him at ease by the 
girlish vivacity of her spirits and manner. 
She was tall, thin, and fifty, attired in ivo- 
ry-white, with black velvet bows, resem- 
bling gigantic butterflies, scattered over 
her skirts by a truly lavish hand. Fashion 
could not reproach her with not conform- 
ing to prescribed rules in evening dress, in 
the matter of revealing a scraggy neck 
adorned with a collar of emeralds and ru- 
bies, adjacent ridges of shoulders, and two 
long, bony arms covered with tinkling 
bracelets, which slipped restlessly up and 
down from elbow to wrist. Her lady- 
ship’s coiffure was jaunty, not to say eccen- 
tric; a structure of velvet, feathers, and 
little points of steel vibrated with every 
movement of her head, while patches of 
rouge bloomed on her cheeks without de- 
tracting from a severe resemblance to cer- 
tain birds of prey, in the hooked nose, 
sharp chin, and small eyes. When she 
moved away to the tea-room, leaning on 
the arm of John Winter, the skipping 
lightness of her step made each velvet 


15 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

butterfly on her skirts flutter; the little 
plumes nodded, as if her head had been 
set on wires, and all the bracelets rattled. 

A silver samovar hissed and bubbled on 
a table in the tiny boudoir devoted to tea, 
surrounded by trays of crisp biscuit and 
cakes, flanked by specimens of Capo di 
Monte and ancient Ginori porcelain. Two 
large, fair Russian servants, in national cos- 
tume of red petticoats, snowy chemisettes 
and sleeves, and the kika on their heads, 
with its flowing ribbons attached, stood as 
motionless as statues, prepared to serve the 
golden tea with slices of lemon, thin wa- 
fers of apple, or a spoonful of jam, as re- 
quired. 

Lady Brown accepted a cup of the fra- 
grant beverage from the hand of John 
Winter, its delicacy of flavor enhanced, if 
possible, by the fragile cup which con- 
tained it. The cup depicted the birth of 
Aphrodite, in raised figures of rich, me- 
tallic lustre, supported on a saucer which 
seemed tinted with the blended hues of 
blossoms. 

Her ladyship admired the china, praised 
the tea, addressed the grave, fair servants 
in German, and then demanded if it was 
John Winter’s first visit to Florence. 

He replied modestly that he lived here 
as a student of art. 

“ Charming !” said Lady Brown, sipping 
her tea, nodding her plumes, adjusting 
her bracelets, and, by turns, revealing twin 
rows of painfully white teeth, vying in reg- 
ularity with the ivory keys of a piano, 
and adjusting her lorgnette to peer about 
her. 

“ I have lived here five-and-twenty years,” 
she continued. “I know nobody — abso- 
lutely nobody, I assure you. I never go 
into general society. Fancy ! I read the 
obituary in a London periodical, yesterday, 
of an English savant who died recently at 
Florence, where he had resided for fifteen 
years. I positively never heard the man’s 
name. Fancy ! And you study art ?” 

“Yes,” John Winter assented, but with 
more embarrassment than he had yet be- 
trayed this evening. 

A long, white satin dress had drifted 
into the tiny boudoir, and the wearer’s 
eyes, brilliant as stars, encountered those 
of the young sculptor with a smile of rec- 
ognition. 

“ Ah ! good evening,” said the American 
princess, extending a slender gloved hand 
to him. “ My husband, Mr. Winter.” 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

“How do?” said the prince in English, 
also extending his hand. 

“You must permit us to call at your 
studio some day. We would not disturb 
you after three o’clock, I remember,” added 
the bride in her fresh, sweet tones. 

Reality has phases impossible to the wild- 
est dream of imagination. Here, in a little 
tea-room hung with gray silk, two Russian 
maids, in crimson and gold, guarded the 
hissing samovar; the fantastic figure of 
Lady Brown formed a background; and 
the wedding-train of the American princess 
filled the middle space -with the rich lustre 
of satin which resembles the magnolia. 
The two young men looked at each other 
for the first time in their lives — the Prince 
del Giglio with his habitual indifference, 
John Winter more keenly, because aware 
that he was a creature of another sphere. 
It -was the merest trifle of incident in the 
gay evening; a smile, a word, and then the 
bride passed on to take her place in the 
cotillion. 

Lady Brown eyed her insignificant es- 
cort with sudden interest, in her bird-like 
fashion. 

“You knew the Princess del Giglio be- 
fore her marriage ?” she hazarded. 

“Oh yes.” 

“ In America, possibly ?” 

“Yes, in America,” he replied, absently. 

“Her name was Miss Celia Bayard ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Pray tell me if her father was a — con- 
tractor, of the West,” continued her lady- 
ship, with extraordinary animation, as she 
relinquished her teacup and prepared to 
move away. 

“No,” said John Winter, with a some- 
what grim smile, his thoughts straying far 
from his companion. 

Lady Brown mentally resolved to invite 
this young American to her next dinner- 
party. Evidently he knew something of 
the princess and her past life — a topic of 
much interest in her ladyship’s circle just 
then. 

The cotillion had commenced, and Lady 
Brown, still clinging to John Winter’s arm, 
insisted on witnessing it. The season was 
over, but Madame Landeck was far too 
amiable a hostess to deprive her guests of 
a brief cotillion as a necessary close to an 
evening. Was she not, in addition, cele- 
brating the fete of her husband, whose pa- 
tron saint was St. John the Baptist ? 

Prince del Giglio led the cotillion, by 


16 


x 

A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


reason of liis well-established reputation 
for perfection in this branch of dancing. 

Lady Brown nodded her head in time to 
the music, and John Winter felt the young 
blood bound in his veins, kindled to sym- 
pathetic excitement by the pretty scene. 

The moments lengthened to half hours, 
and the half hours to full hours, and still 
the ring of spectators enclosed the dancers, 
who moved about in the airy mazes of in- 
terlacing figures, woven together by the 
rainbow pennants of ribbons and flowers, 
or separating in couples at a word from 
the prince, and spinning apart on the pol- 
ished floor. 

The American princess, elate, buoyant, 
radiant in the intoxication of the moment, 
came and went, herself a dazzling vision, 
her fair arm resting on the black sleeve of 
her partner, the gems about her throat 
twinkling like dew-drops, the rose-tint of 
cheek and lip deepening in the disorder in- 
cident to giddy movement, which imparted 
a bewitching and bacchanalian loveliness 
to her usually pensive beauty. 

*Jolin Winter watched her slender form 
swaying in response to the gay melody, like 
a flower on its stalk — for grace in dancing 
is a gift of individuals rather than of races 
— until the room swam before his weary 
eyes. The face of this girl had interested 
him more than any living face he had ever 
beheld. It was a study set apart from the 
worship of classical statues and reverence 
for the antique. It was a soft, oval, youth- 
ful face of his own century. The sculptor 
recognized in the purity of its outline, the 
mobile changes of expression, his field of 
study, if power of reproduction existed in 
him. Now she failed to interest him. The 
painter might have delighted to depict her 
with jewels in her hair and the glow of de- 
lirium on her cheek. The sculptor’s chisel 
would have required other material — at 
least a more ennobling mood. 

A German baron accosted Lady Brown, 
and John Winter gladly withdrew. 

The surprise of the evening, so rich in 
incident in his quiet life, was still in store 
for him. A balcony afforded his sole means 
of escape from the room, where each door 
was occupied with spectators. He walked 
along the balcony — discovered, to his cha- 
grin, that the other windows were filled 
with groups, seated— and returned, baffled, 
to the casement he had quitted. At least 
be had escaped from the clutches of Lady 
Brown. He did not question, in his relief 


at emancipation from her ladyship’s soci- 
ety, whether she would have proved one of 
those avenues to fame indicated by the mas- 
ter — Abraham Blackwood — or not. Youth 
is rash. 

The window was now occupied by a 
female figure which arrested his attention. 
A girl, small and slight, stood gazing at the 
dancers, with her back turned to the bal- 
cony. Her dress, also white, was of some 
simple material, suitable to a demoiselle; 
no diamonds sparkled at her throat and 
wrists or in her black hair, piled high on 
the top of her head. John Winter could 
not see her full face ; he could only discern 
a somewhat sharp profile, dull in coloring, 
and with a heavy eyelid, like that of a 
sulky child. What he did perceive was 
sufficiently startling to a casual observer. 
The girl’s shoulders moved convulsively, in 
petulance or grief, unaccompanied by any 
sound of sobs, and two small hands, meet- 
ing stealthily behind her back, snapped in 
fragments the ivory fan she held, and tore 
the lace of her handkerchief with savage, 
nervous energy. 

“ I curse her /” she muttered in Italian. 

These words were hissed between the 
red, pouting lips, and cut the air as the 
golden and fiery serpents of the bridge had 
scorched the darkness of night at an earlier 
hour. 

Her attitude, at once defiant and depress- 
ed, the clutching of the cruel little hands 
at the fan, the steady gaze directed toward 
the detested object with unwilling fascina- 
tion, all betrayed an intensity of hatred and 
excitement. A wise author has stated that 
the Italian seldom attempts to veil his 
emotions, while carefully concealing his 
thoughts. 

A lady joined the girl in the window. 
The second comer was a sallow, elderly 
woman, in yellow silk, with rare old lace 
on her shoulders. 

“ Do you see ?” whispered the girl. “ She 
wears the satin, and pearls, and diamonds 
which should have belonged to me.” 

“Yes,” replied the mother, with a sigh. 

The princess passed, waltzing in the em- 
brace of her husband. The charming pict- 
ure thus presented appealed to the poetic 
sentiment of the spectators. Bride and 
groom were so young, so beautiful, so hap- 
py! Prince del Giglio, always the most 
attentive of cavaliers, with eyes for the 
charms of his partner alone, now infused a 
certain tender homage into glance and at- 


17 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

titude which became him, and rendered 
him doubly fascinating in the estimation 
of the ladies. , 

The girl in the window turned sudden- 
ly, glanced at John Winter in a dull way, 
as if failing to perceive him, and tossed her 
broken fan over the railings. 

“ May his hisses Slacken her life /” she mur- 
mured, her gaze fixed on the river flowing 
silently below. 

“ Come !” said the mother. 

The girl followed her in silence. Her 
departure was unnoticed, and not regretted 
by the gay company. 

“ She must be the Contessina Olga Val- 
lambroni,” mused John Winter. 

Later Lady Brown, with her head in a 
comfortable night-cap, instead of adorned 
with the feathers and bows, sat sipping a 
cup of chocolate, served by her maid, before 
retiring to bed. 

“ That young sculptor evidently knows 
more about the origin of the American 
princess than the others,” she soliloquized. 
“ I must have him to dinner.” 

Later the carriage of the bride rolled 
homeward through the silent streets. 

“ Life is so charming — on St. John’s Day,” 
she said, nestling close to the side of her 
husband, and gazing up in his ^handsome 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

face with that unconscious adoration, in 
softened glance, and quivering lip, to 
which the prince was not unaccustomed 
in women. 

He took her hands, and held them in his 
own. 

“Will it endure?” she queried, still 
searching his face for the answer. 

“Endure? Surely. Why should not 
happiness last ?” the sweet, musical voice 
made answer. 

“ Ah, if you ever cease to love me — like 
— like this, I shall die 1” added the young 
wife, with a laugh which was half a sob. 

“ When I cease to love you, die !” re- 
turned the prince, in his gentlest, most 
fervent accents, stooping until his lips 
touched her hair. 

Then a great door swung open in a dark 
palace in the Borgo degli Albizzi, the car- 
riage entered, and the princess, in her glis- 
tening robe, vanished, as night engulfs day. 
The gate closed again, with a dull, rever- 
berating echo, and the city slept, in the 
hour before sunrise, guarded by the Duomo, 
which gained height and majesty in the 
solemn stillness, when its silvery bells hung 
mute in the Campanile. 

The festa of San Giovanni Battista was 
over, and another year had begun. 


% 


BOOK I. 

NEHEMIAU METHLEY'S MONEY. 


CHAPTER I. 

A VILLAGE MILLIONAIRE. 

Five years before the events narrated, 
the clock had marked the hour of six in 
the morning in the little village of Her- 
ringville, on the coast of New England. 

Squire Nuthall, punctual as the sun, and 
far more accurate than many time- pieces 
in the community, had already gone to his 
business. His store formed the centre of 
village life, combining as it did the post- 
office, with such household necessities as 
groceries, flour, coal, and red flannel. For 
twenty years Squire Nuthall had never fail- 
ed — Sundays excepted— to traverse the path 
between his house and the store at six o’clock 
in the morning, winter and summer. The 
low, w T eather-beaten building, with its bro- 
2 


ken wooden steps and projecting porch, 
supported on square whitewashed pillars, 
now awaited his presence. 

He was a tall, thin man, with a fringe 
of gray beard meeting under his chin, a 
pair of shrewd blue eyes twinkling be- 
neath shaggy brows, and a wide, thin 
mouth, more frequently closed as a good 
listener than opened in vain conversation. 
Altogether the bearing of Squire Nuthall 
betokened one whose value was known' to 
himself as well as others, and had been 
chiefly acquired by prudently minding his 
o^n business. This October morning form- 
ed no exception to his usual routine of dai- 
fy duties. He had reached the door of the 
store, and inserted the large key in the lock, 
taken from his pocket for the purpose, when 
he became aware that something unusual 


i 


18 


had occurred in 
night. 

What had happened ? 

Squire Nuthall asked himself the ques- 
tion with a keen awakening of interest, and 
stood peering along the village street. 

The outward calm of nature seemed whol- 
ly undisturbed. Soft gray clouds were gath- 
ering on the horizon out over the sea, while 
the waves lapsing gently on the beach be- 
yond the tiny breakwater wore a pallid 
hue, and the air was chill with the promise 
of speedy rain. Herringville, dismantled 
of such summer flowers as a cold climate 
allowed to thrive, was a straggling hamlet 
of one street — the neat houses usually sep- 
arated by gardens, with an occasional by- 
way leading down to the harbor. A steep 
hill rose behind, crested with evergreens. 
The white meeting-house was visible on 
the slope, while the crown of evergreens 
marked the cemetery above. 

In the stillness of the autumn day Squire 
Nuthall had heard, half unconsciously, the 
crowing of a vain-glorious cock in his own 
barn-yard, succeeded by the sharp bark of 
a dog in the distance, and then the sud- 
den opening and closing of a great door, 
which awakened a dull echo in the quiet 
atmosphere of morning. This door was 
the seldom-used entrance to the mansion 
of Nehemiah Methlev. The house being 
located at an angle of the street, Squire 
Nuthall, pausing at the unusual sound, had 
gazed toward it in astonishment, leaving 
the key in the store-door. He had been 
rewarded by seeing Hannah Stort rush out 
of the gate and approach him swiftly. 
The good neighbor lost no time in step- 
ping out into the road, and even caught 
her by the arm in the laudable endeavor 
to be first in learning any news. 

“What’s the matter, Hannah?” he de- 
manded, forgetting the key and the duties 
of postmaster in a kindling excitement. 

Hannah Stort, her face gray and rigid, 
save for a convulsive movement of the lips 
when attempting speech, wrenched away 
her arm from his grasp like one distraught, 
and panted, 

“ The doctor ! I am going — myself.” 

Then she fled onward, leaving Squire 
Nuthall standing in the middle of the road, 
gazing after her with eyes and mouth wide 
open. He was about to pursue and over- 
take her, when his attention was diverted 
to the house she had quitted in such haste. 

A second form, lighter and more youth- 


ful, darted out the same door, but paused 
irresolutely at the gate. This was a girl, 
pale, with* delicate features and fair hair, 
who shivered, and wrung her hands. As 
she paused at the gate, the leaves of the 
maple-trees, withered from their first glory 
of golden tints, came drifting down softly 
on her head. 

Squire Nuthall hastened toward her; 
had it been consistent with the dignity of 
a deacon and selectman of the township, 
he would have actually run, so intense was 
his desire to know what had transpired. 
A more serious rebuff than the agitation of 
Hannah Stort awaited him. A lady ap- 
peared, more composed in appearance than 
either of her predecessors, placed her arm 
about the young girl, drew her into the 
house, and closed the great door in the face 
of the now truly exasperated squire before 
he could utter a word. 

“ That must be the strange woman,” he 
muttered, somewhat resentfully. 

The whole proceeding was sufficiently 
startling and unusual to arouse drowsy 
Herringville like an earthquake when it 
should be known. Hannah Stort had rush- 
ed out of Nehemiah Metliley’s door, and 
gone for the doctor at six o’clock in the 
morning. The young girl who had arrived 
with her mother, yesterday, had followed, 
as if desirous to escape from that roof. 
Self-respect and a trifle of embarrassment, 
it must be confessed, forbade Squire Nuthall 
to storm another man’s castle, and demand 
what had happened. 

He stared angrily at the closed windows 
of the old house which baffled his scrutiny, 
paused to reflect, turned the quid of tobac- 
co in his mouth, and set off at a brisk pace 
to inform the minister, in his turn. To in- 
form the minister of what dire calamity ? 
He did not know, still it was safe to seek the 
minister in such an emergency as demand- 
ed also the doctor. Thieves ? Murderers ? 
What had befallen Nehemiah Methley’s 
household overnight? The place was not 
on fire, certainly. Then, as he trudged along 
the village street, the impulse of mere curi- 
osity was checked in the breast of this zeal- 
ous neighbor, and gave place to a cold fear. 
He paused and considered the matter afresh. 
The flurrying movements about the house 
had been those of women — Hannah Stort, 
strong of frame and steady of nerve, as 
Herringville had appreciated many years, 
had issued forth, wild and haggard, to find 
the doctor ! 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 
Herringville during the 


19 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

Nehemiah Methley has remained invisible. 

In the mean while the lady, known as 
the “ strange woman,” had led the young 
girl within the house and closed the door. 
Her face was pale, and her cold hands trem- 
bled, but her eyes were dry. Her whole ap- 
pearance and manner was that of a person 
shocked and startled rather than grieved. 
She endeavored to collect herself sufficient- 
ly to confront a serious emergency. 

“You must not run out-of-doors, dar- 
ling,” she said, drawing her child closer to 
her with a sudden passion betrayed by the 
warmth of her embrace. 

“ It is so terrible, mamma,” said the girl, 
with a shudder. “ I was never so frighten- 
ed in my life ; were you ? I felt my knees 
knock together, and my heart in my throat, 
when she told us. Oh, what a gloomy old 
house !” 

Then she added, after a pause, with her 
lips close to her mother’s ear, 

“ Does he — need anything — more ?” 

“No, my dear. He is certainly dead,” 
replied the mother, with solemnity. 

They were standing in a small vestibule, 
with the large door closed, and only a fee- 
ble ray of light coming through the tan- 
shaped panes above, for the windows on 
either side were screened by green paper 
curtains. The obscurity of this hall was 
singularly in harmony with the gray morn- 
ing. The floor was covered with an oil- 
cloth — cold to the feet, and adhering to 
shoes with an odor of fresh varnish ; a ma- 
hogany table constituted the sole article 
of furniture; the staircase wound up in a 
crooked and cramped fashion, with a white 
railing ; two doors opened on either side of 
the space below — polished, shining doors, 
curiously like a coffin lid. 

The mother, who had previously soothed 
her daughter, now yielded to hysterical 
weeping, and they clung together, mingling 
their tears. Both realized, with a sentiment 
of mutual sympathy, that in the damp, dark 
vestibule of a strange house they were turn- 
ing a fresh leaf of life, to be read with faint- 
ing misgiving and dread. 

Hope, the fairy with rainbow - tinted 
wings, ever near the feminine breast, had 
not, as yet, preened her silky plumage, 
drenched in tears, for a fresh flight into the- 
realms of Imagination. 

Then the young doctor, with an aspect 
of quiet dignity and decision, approached, 
followed by Hannah Stort, still livid and 
rigid. At the same moment the minister, 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

a spare and grave old man with white 
hair, reached the gate, accompanied by 
Squire Nuthall, subdued, but still full of re- 
pressed curiosity. The young doctor shook 
hands with the minister, nodded to Squire 
Nuthall, and hastened into the house. 

The latter hesitated, and paused at the 
gate. Suddenly he remembered that he 
had left the key in the store-door, thus ex- 
posing the United States Mail to jeopardy, 
and hastened back to the post of duty. He 
did not know what misfortune had over- 
whelmed Nehemiah Methley, but he was 
not the man to betray ignorance by useless 
speech. It is a gift of nature to be able to 
adroitly screen a lack of knowledge. In- 
stinctively Squire Nuthall held his tongue 
while sorting the mail for the stage-coach ; 
and the most enduring impression retained 
by Herringville, subsequently, of the event- 
ful morning, was that he had “ known all 
about it” in advance of the town. The 
reputation of Squire Nuthall as a man and 
a citizen lost nothing by the circumstance. 

At half-past six o’clock in the morning 
the minister and the doctor, those two pow- 
erful guardians of life and death in all com- 
munities, had entered together the door 
of Nehemiah Methley. Rumor, more swift 
than the autumn wind, which scatters the 
seared and crumbling maple-leaves, flew 
over the village with this item of astonish- 
ing news. 

Little Miss Toppe, the milliner, whose lat- 
est fashions Herringville firmly believed in 
as emanating not only from Boston direct, 
but filtering through purest sources of New 
York and Paris, knew all in a trice. She 
told the young butcher, who was weighing 
out for her the first fresh pork of the sea- 
son, in the scales of his linen-covered cart, 
before the door. 

“ Something dreadful has happened up 
to Squire Methley’s. You know a strange 
woman and her daughter arrived last night, 
and now he’s sick or dying. Perhaps he’s 
been murdered; mebbe poisoned,” added 
Miss Toppe, her mind prone to such sup- 
positions after the perusal of certain weekly 
journals. 

“ Sho !” retorted the young butcher, his 
blue eyes growing round with horror. 

“ Not more than ten pounds, Samuel,” 
said Miss Toppe, pensively. “ I do hope it 
is one of the Hopkin pigs this year.” 

“ To be sure,” assented the young butch- 
er, unblushingly, and with professional 
promptness. 


20 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


Then he gave Miss Toppe her bit of 
pork, which she received daintily in a 
napkin, and chirruped to his horse, resum- 
ing his round of duty. He did not ring 
his hand -bell before the Methley home- 
stead, although he craned his neck to gaze 
at it, with a novel and fascinated interest 
in the exterior. The young butcher rea- 
soned, logically enough, that, whatever had 
occurred, fresh meat, whether in mutton- 
chops or beefsteak, might be considered an 
unwarrantable intrusion. A family in af- 
fliction subsists on salt codfish and a slice 
of ham, at least until after the funeral. The 
sturdy horse, and cart with linen cover, 
trotted on; and wherever they passed, 
guided by the young butcher, fearful 
doubts, alarm, and misgivings spread like 
a flame which scourges the fields of a pas- 
toral region. Nehemiah Methley was dan- 
gerously ill — had been wounded, poisoned ; 
and all sinister reflections centred on the 
strange woman who had arrived last night. 

Miss Toppe, the milliner, represented only 
one voice of rumor, which possessed so many 
voices on that gray October day. The min- 
ister and doctor had gone to the house 
of Nehemiah Methley. This was the fact 
stated over and over again. 

The fishermen, sorting their tackle down 
in the cove, said, one to another, 

“It might be the captain’s chance to 
step into a lot of money, if he’s alive.” 

The fishermen — honest and brawny sons 
of toil — had no sympathy to waste on Ne- 
hemiah Methley, alive or dead, although 
eager to hear the news. 

The school-boys, skurrying over the hills 
in the guilty enjoyment of having a bird- 
snare hidden in the woods, knew all, and 
spread consternation among the farms, send- 
ing many an old woman into town to learn 
more definite particulars than they could 
pause to impart, in the act of climbing a 
fence or running across a ploughed field. 

“ Nehemiah Methley’s sick !” piped the 
school-boys. 

“ Sick, did you say ?” cried the old women. 

“I guess so. He was stingy as — any- 
thing!” retorted the school-boys as they 
sped on. 

What signified the affairs of Nehemiah 
Methley in comparison with the delicious 
doubts and hopes concentrated on a bird- 
snare ? 

The old women were of a different opin- 
ion. They had lived to learn the value of 
money, if nothing else, and Nehemiah Meth- 


ley was the richest man in the township, if 
not in the whole State. Accordingly, the 
latter made excuses to their respective con- 
sciences of requiring sugar and molasses at 
the store of Squire Nuthall, and set out for 
Herringville in wagons — rusty “carryalls” 
—lined with buffalo-skins, or on foot, as be- 
came their condition in the social scale. 

The sombre morning passed, peaceful in 
outward aspect, and full of intense excite- 
ment to this small community, which rep- 
resented the complete fulfilment of many 
lives. The old mansion at the angle of 
road, with its fading maple-trees guarding 
the gate-hedge of box, and all the window- 
shutters closed, as if veiling a secret, re- 
mained the same externally as in the ear- 
lier hours when Squire Nuthall had been 
startled by the hasty exit of Hannah Stort, 
emerging in fear. What events were trans- 
piring within ? 

At eleven o’clock the village received a 
galvanic shock. James Blake, undertaker, 
drove up to the gate, tied his horse to the 
ring in the post, and was observed, in con- 
fidential attitude, conversing with the young 
doctor, who had hovered about the prem- 
ises all the morning. Enviable position ! 
The young doctor had scanned the inner- 
most recesses of the mystery with his own 
eyes, had spent hours in the house, knew 
the whole truth. 

Herringville shivered at sight of James 
Blake, another great and inevitable power 
in the township, and whispered, 

“ He’s come to take Nehemiah Methley’s 
measure, and lay him out.” 

Rumor had taken a tangible form before 
this arrival, however. It was generally 
known that the man whose life had in- 
spired so much interest for many years, not 
by reason of the affection he elicited but 
because of the power he wielded, had been 
found dead in his bed that morning. Dead 
in his bed, without word of farewell or a 
day of illness ! The village was stunned, 
amazed, even awe - stricken. Never had 
such an event transpired before. Herring- 
ville had indeed been visited by death on 
previous occasions, but not by the decease 
of its rich man. Was Nehemiah Methley 
expected to exist forever as an immortal ? 
Perhaps not ; still, Herringville possessed 
only one millionnaire, and must needs inter- 
est itself in his affairs. The blow was so 
sudden and unexpected. An old man ? No ; 
old for his years, possibly, and set in his 
ways. Herringville, especially when verg- 


T 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


ing on eighty and rheumatic, was disposed 
to consider Nehemiali Methley’s fifty years 
as less than the prime of life. What luck 
he had enjoyed, too, after that first invest- 
ment of his father’s money in mines ! Ev- 
erything he had touched turned to gold. 
If he had been interested in the fishiDg-fleet 
one year, which annually sailed for New- 
foundland, the haul had been unprece- 
dented, while in the succeeding season, 
after he had withdrawn capriciously, storms 
had delayed and even wrecked most of the 
vessels. The same success had attended 
new railways and banks, until the very name 
of Herringville’s millionnaire was deemed 
magical, even by sober and prudent capi- 
talists. Gold, gold — nothing but gold — 
for the thin, grasping fingers of Neliemiah 
Methley. 

Dead in his bed ! Had he been robbed 
and murdered? It was strange, passing 
strange, that he should have died the very 
night visitors slept in his house. No guest 
had spent a day beneath his roof in the 
memory of man. Miss Toppe and the femi- 
nine element were disposed to take a dark 
view of the coincidence. Who was this 
visitor, and why had she never come be- 
fore ? Religious people opined that man 
knows not the hour of his summons ; scep- 
tics experienced that dread of the unseen, 
the eternal, common to humanity. The 
angel had flown over the hamlet, singling 
out Nehemiali Methley to appear before the 
highest tribunal. Who would next be sum- 
moned ? 

At noon Seth Deems, the shoemaker, re- 
turned to his shop after partaking of his 
dinner in the adjacent house, wiping his 
mouth on the back of one hairy hand. He 
found the shop deserted. 

“ That boy’s off agin on his tantrums,” he 
grumbled, fastening the strings of his leath- 
er apron, and taking up a half-finished boot 
of colossal proportions, such as the village 
wore in bad weather. “ The news got to 
him somehow, I s’pose ; but he’ll never be 
a steady hand at nothin’. Bad blood there, 
I guess, and I’m about sick of my bargain.” 

At noon the doctor returned home to 
dinner, aware that he had gained reputa- 
tion in the estimation of Herringville by 
being permitted to attend Nehemiali Meth- 
ley after he was dead. His pretty wife 
ran out to meet him, with the baby in her 
arms, as he approached the Gothic cottage, 
where matrimony still wore its first bloom, 
and geraniums flourished in the tiny yard, 


21 

planted by the medical man in moments 
of leisure, with ornamental borders of clam- 
shells. 

“ Oh, Harry, tell me about it ! Was he 
really murdered?” cried the young wife, 
with an interest she failed to evince, inva- 
riably, in humbler patients. 

“ Murdered ? Nonsense !” returned the 
doctor, taking his baby and tossing it in 
the air. 

Then, as professional reticence was not 
involved on his own hearth-stone, he told 
his wife the circumstances of the rich 
man’s end; how various restoratives had 
been tried in vain, and he had been re- 
quired to confer with the undertaker, later. 
The baby crowed, and clutched at the pa- 
ternal hair ; a rosy, dimpled creature, with 
bright eyes. The inarticulate remarks is- 
suing from the wee mouth were received by 
both parents as a remarkable intellectual 
development apparent since morning. The 
doctor’s wife was somewhat disappointed. 
There was no mystery, with just a spice 
of crime, to be attached to the decease of 
Nehemiali Methley. 

Miss Toppe had stepped over, earlier, to 
assert her own convictions of foul play, and 
learn more from the doctor’s wife, if possi- 
ble. When hard pressed, subsequently, as 
to the source of her information, the mil- 
liner, in flight, laid the charge at the doc- 
tor’s own Gothic door,. which led to a pur- 
chase of bonnets in the next village the 
succeeding season. Miss Toppe had her re- 
venge, although deeply wounded in pride. 
She loudly affirmed that the doctor’s lady 
afterward trimmed her own hats; and f 
while these efforts of taste and skill might 
pass muster to the unpractised eye, in meet- 
ing or elsewhere, no milliner would ever 
be deceived by the way the feathers and 
flowers “went on.” 

At noon Squire Nuthall’s store was far 
too crowded for him to partake of his usu- 
al dinner; he was obliged to satisfy the 
cravings of hunger with a doughnut and 
a bit of cheese, devoured surreptitiously 
behind the counter. No man’s life or 
death is without influence on the exist- 
ence of others. The excitement concern- 
ing Nehemiah Methley brought profit to 
his neighbor. Crowds besieged the store, 
and never had such a run on the stock be- 
fore been known. Barrels of flour disap- 
peared out of the back-door on attendant 
wagons, as if by magic ; hogsheads of mo- 
lasses and casks of kerosene-oil were drain- 


22 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


ed of their contents into stone jugs and tin 
cans, carried, for the most part, by young 
Herringville in battered straw hats and 
sun- bonnets, eager to hear the news dis- 
cussed by their elders. At all times the 
store, combining as it did the post-office, 
was the village club, where lounged man- 
kind, cracking jokes, discussing politics 
and the crops ; but the care-worn house- 
wives, with bread and cake to bake, and 
the temperature of the stove-oven at home 
usually weighing on their minds, seldom 
liugered. To-day the housewives flocked 
here in strong force, with startled eyes 
and pale faces, anxious to hear with their 
own ears how Nehemiah Methley had been 
found dead in his bed, while feigning in- 
terest in new calico for gowns and aprons, 
and even yarn for winter knitting. Thus 
Squire Nuthall’s department of dry-goods 
—all those shelves ranging from the floor 
up to the smoke-blackened, fly-stained ceil- 
ing — also experienced a pressure of busi- 
ness incident to the decease of the mil- 
lionnaire, in the lessening folds of calico 
and the vanishing skeins of yarn. Nay, 
was not Herringville beguiled into extrav- 
agance, if only to show that it did not 
hang about the store for hours merely to 
gossip? A farmer bought the bottle of 
pink hair-oil which had reposed so long in 
the seldom-opened show-case of luxuries, 
containing porte-monuaies with brass clasps, 
scented soap, ribbons, perfumery, and orna- 
mented pins. A fisherman paid for a net 
worked with beads, because he had stretch- 
ed it over his big fingers while discussing 
how much money Nehemiah Methley had 
probably left with the town-clerk. 

“ If the captain would only turn up now, 
he would be in the nick of time. He’s the 
chap to make ducks and drakes Of the 
ready,” observed the fisherman, receiving 
the net, wrapped in paper, as if he had 
long meditated giving it to his eldest 
daughter. 

Then the crowd of loungers realized that 
the minister had entered, and was follow- 
ed shyly, irresolutely, by the boy John 
Winter. The minister made a few remarks 
to Squire Nuthall, who was counting cop- 
pers at his till, returned the greetings of 
his flock, claimed his newspaper from the 
box of the post-office, and turned away, ev- 
idently deeming a longer stay unseemly on 
his part. 

Herringville scrutinized the boy John 
Winter with a manifest curiosity, of which 


the object was painfully conscious. Why 
did the crowd stare at him now ? Because 
the captain, Nehemiah Methley’s brother, 
was undoubtedly the father of John ^in- 
ter. You need not attempt to decqjve Her- 
ringville on this point. When one has 
been given eyes, and, further, has been en- 
dowed with common-sense, one cannot hell) 
perceiving the truth. 

The boy strove to conceal his embarrass- 
ment by reading the placards on the door 
— “ Radway’s Ready Relief,” in blue letters, 
on a vermilion ground, or “Holloway’s 
Ointment,” announcing its virtues in letters 
of silver and gold. He had left the post 
of duty at the shoemaker’s bench of Seth 
Deems — a straw caught in the eddy of a 
freshet — and came to the store for further 
tidings, with the same instinct which would 
have led him to cast aside his tools and 
run to a fire. Now all Herringville looked 
at him as one set apart, and unlike other 
boys. John Winter was morbidly sensi- 
tive to this public gaze; he felt it pierce 
the back of his head and penetrate his 
brain, as he read the gaudy placards. The 
fisherman’s next words reached his ear : 

“The captain would set up that lad a 
bit, likely, if he came into Nehemiah Meth- 
ley’s money.” 

John Winter’s heart swelled within his 
breast, and he turned suddenly, clinching 
his fist. 

“ The captain’s dead, I tell you. He was 
wrecked off the Cape of Good Hope years 
ago — and my mother knew.” 

He paused. How loud and harsh his own 
voice had sounded ! How had he gather- 
ed courage sufficient to speak at all ! His 
face crimsoned, tears rose to his eyes, and 
he darted out the door, aware that signifi- 
cant glances were being exchanged behind 
his back, acutely conscious that he had bet- 
ter have remained silent. What were they 
saying ? Doubtless his mother had known 
if the captain was wrecked. Yes, it was the 
old story over again. The poor mother 
could not be allowed to rest even in her 
grave. Would Nehemiah Methley rest, the 
rich man, in his grave ? The boy asked him- 
self this question with sudden curiosity and 
awe, inspired by the sullen envy of the poor 
for the prosperous. He stopped in the road, 
shading his eyes with his hand, and gazed 
at the old house, so silent in the noonday, 
where death reigned. 

The minister, who had paused in the 
porch to open his newspaper, looked at 


23 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

the boy in perplexity. John Winter was 
an unsolved problem to Herringville — a 
child without a father, bound apprentice 
to ,Seth Deems, shoemaker, by the town. 
How could the minister, whose garments 
must be stainless in the sight of all men, 
hope to solve it ? 

“Verily the way of transgressors is hard, 
and the sin of the father is ever visited on 
the children even unto the third and fourth 
generation,” thought the good man, with a 
sigh. 

John Winter made a step toward him, 
touched his sleeve, and looked up into his 
face with a startling inquiry : 

“ Do you really believe in God ?” 

The minister was so overwhelmed by this 
attack that he could only reply, 

“ Yes.” 

“ Did he ?” pursued the boy, nodding in 
the direction of the dead man’s residence. 

His tone had that rough familiarity pe- 
culiar to the timid and bashful, "when 
nerved to speech by any powerful emotion, 
wdiich leads to an extreme of apparent over- 
confidence. To the minister this manner 
was offensive to the last degree, accustom- 
ed as he was to inspire respect. He laid 
his hand on John Winter’s shoulder, even 
shook him a trifle, in severe disapproval of 
this flippant vein of speech. Here was a 
black sheep, indeed, in his flock. 

“ I cannot permit such wild and blasphe- 
mous talk in a mere child,” he said, when 
he had sufficiently recovered from his sur- 
prise. “The good and merciful God cre- 
ated the earth on which we stand, permit- 
ting such poor worms as ourselves to occu- 
py it for a season. He gave you breath, as 
he has taken away that of our lamented 
brother, Nehemiali Metliley.” 

A light radiated the features of his hear- 
er at these words. The boy instinctively 
drew a long respiration, inflating his lungs. 
He still lived and breathed, although Ne- 
ll emiah Methley had ceased to do so. His 
youth rejoiced in its strength and freedom. 
He detested being called a worm. The min- 
ister w T as always addressing his hearers as 
worms of the dust, in those long sermons 
to which he was forced to listen on Sun- 
day. 

A tall, lank youth of fifteen^ ill-fed and 
shabbily clothed, a pair of large gray eyes 
alone redeemed his pale face from insignifi- 
cance. The full, limpid clearness of these 
eyes, their piercing brilliancy, even made 
the minister uncomfortable. Had he, the 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

husbandman, neglected this plant, and suf- 
fered it to grow in untrained luxuriance 
along the ground, instead of pruning and 
clipping it with careful hand? The soul 
of John Winter was precious to the minis- 
ter. He experienced a thrill of the fire 
which had stimulated his youth as a re- 
vival preacher. He determined to pray for 
this outcast boy, enlighten his dark mind, 
and lead him to the light of true righteous- 
ness. Why had he overlooked him so long ? 
He must be brought to the Sunday-school, 
the Bible -class, the prayer -meeting. His 
spirit needed conquering, taming ; his heart 
renewing, like a brand plucked from the 
burning. Like the heathen, he had asked 
if there was a God. 

“ You must come to my study this even- 
ing, my lad,” he said, his cheek flushing 
slightly. “ I wish to talk with you about 
your state.” 

“Yes,” assented John Winter. 

He no longer heard the minister. His 
glance had strayed to the sky, where a 
mass of clouds had formed into one of those 
detached shapes which he delighted to 
watch. The vapor driven fitfully in from 
the sea changed from a fantastic monster, 
half dragon and half demon, to a veiled 
figure that stretched across the zenith, and 
melted imperceptibly behind the hill. John 
Winter forgot the minister in observing 
these drifting mists. Such moments of ab- 
straction puzzled practical Herringville, 
and made the neighbors doubt if Martha 
Winter’s child was not a little queer. 

“ Oh, it is like an angel,” he murmured. 

Then the idea came to his mind that 
perhaps this mysterious veiled form in the 
heavens was the soul of Nehemiali Methley 
ascending from the old house, and wander- 
ing through space until absorbed in the 
immeasurable, awful heights of distance 
forming the surrounding universe, of which 
he knew nothing except that it had ram- 
parts of stars and a silvery moon. 

The minister walked on, having exacted 
that promise to the satisfaction of his own 
conscience. 

John Winter glanced again at the home- 
stead. He was fascinated and repelled by 
its aspect. Why? He could not decide 
in his own thoughts. The house was like 
a face watching him, with a silent subtle 
intelligence, through the trees. A pebble 
struck him on the ankle, followed by an- 
other on his knee, and disturbed his mus- 
ings. Seth Deems, the shoemaker, availed 


24 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

himself of such means to recall to duty his 
delinquent apprentice. 

“ How long are you goin’ to stand there 
staring at nothin’ ?” he fumed. 

When the boy entered the shop in re- 
sponse to the summons, the shoemaker, an 
irritable man, with a red nose and watery 
eyes, ascribed by the village to stealthy vis- 
its to the tavern, gave him a blow on the 
back, and, seizing his head between both 
hands, knocked it against the wall. 

“ I will teach ye to quit the bench,” lie 
growled. 

Seth Deems was a rough taskmaster at 
all times, yet John Winter had never com- 
plained of harsh treatment. He was used 
to it. Besides, who would listen to his 
complaints ? Now his cheek burned at the 
contact of those horny fingers with his 
hair. 

“ Never do that again !” he said, in a low, 
tremulous voice. 

“Eh?” Seth Deems blinked at him a 
moment, and then returned to his own 
place. 

The day had wrought some change in 
the boy’s nature. A voice spoke within 
him continually'which troubled and moved 
him, because he failed to grasp its full 
meaning. The minister said God had 
given him breath. Unconsciously he had 
loosened one of the prison bars of John 
Winter’s spirit. 

An hour later Seth Deems glanced up 
through his spectacles, having finished sol- 
ing a boot. John Winter sat by the win- 
dow, silent, his shoe still on his knee, with 
a vague and dreamy smile on his face. 

“A weak lad enough,” thought the shoe- 
maker, proud of his own forbearance with 
the orphan delivered over to his charge. 
“ His wits are going fast — if he ever had 
any — and he’ll end in the almshouse asy- 
lum, or I’m a Dutchman.” 

With the evening came rain, steady and 
monotonous in its descent on little Her- 
ringville. The minister had placed a fresh- 
ly-trimmed lamp on the table in his study, 
and selected several appropriate passages 
of Scripture to read aloud for the edifi- 
cation of John Winter. But John Win- 
ter did not come. At the hour when the 
minister had laid his spectacles on the 
Bible to pace the floor in meditation, now 
pausing to glance at the clock, and now 
peering out of the window, the object of 
liis solicitude was perched on a fence, gaz- 
ing at the house of Neliemiah Methley, the 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

rain pattering on his shoulders and stream- 
ing from his hair. 

The minister sighed deeply, and his pray- 
er that night before his family retired to 
rest was lengthy and solemn. Punctuality 
was a virtue, in his estimation, not to be 
lightly set aside. It happened that John 
Winter, the wild vine, the black sheep of a 
peaceful fold, was destined never to keep 
an appointment with the minister. 

Night shrouded the Methley homestead. 
In the shadow of the trees and the project- 
ing hill the sloping roof and chimneys were 
alone visible. A ray of light emanating 
from a window of the lower story attract- 
ed John Winter’s attention as he emerged 
from the house of Seth Deems, and made 
him swerve from the narrow path of duty. 
The ray slanted across the wet shrubbery 
and darted a fiery arrow along the road, 
and beckoned to him with a certain mock-- 
ery, as the mansion had seemed to watch 
him in the day. He had told Seth Deems 
that the minister desired to see him, with 
a novel sense of self-respect ; but when the 
shoemaker’s door had closed behind him, 
the impulse to approach the mysterious 
abode of Nehemiah Methley became quite 
irresistible. He paused at the boundary 
fence. The idle gossips of Herringville 
were responsible for this interest. Had 
Captain Methley lived, would he have be- 
friended him ? Had that bluff and kindly 
sailor occupied the house on such a wet 
night, would he have admitted him to 
warmth and shelter ? 

He left the fence and approached the 
window, pressing his face against the pane. 
He saw the interior of a low, dark room, 
with a stove at one extremity, and a table 
supporting the lamp which had lured him 
here. Beside the table was seated the lady 
whose advent had excited so much specu- 
lation in the village, her head resting on 
her hand in a thoughtful attitude. A sofa, 
covered with faded chintz, was on the oth- 
er side of the table, and a girl nestled on 
the pillow, fast asleep. Wearied with the 
melancholy stillness of the day, she had for- 
gotten Nehemiah Methley and his dreary 
home in a world of dreams. The lamp- 
light fell on her upturned face, which gath- 
ered all the^briglitness of the place as nat- 
urally as a flower which springs from the 
margin of a dark lake. In that sombre 
chamber the disk of light framed alone the 
young girl’s golden head and fair face, 
slightly flushed on either cheek. 


25 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

This was the charming vision revealed 
to John Winter through the window. In- 
stead of Nehemiah Methley, stark and stiff 
in his shroud, as he had half feared, he saw 
life in its most youthful bloom and beauty 
— oh life ! with a sheen of gold on rippling 
hair, rounded cheek and chin, peacli-tinted, 
and unfulfilled hopes in the smile of half- 
opened lips ! The boy trembled, and his 
gray eyes dilated. John Winter always 
trembled when moved by emotion. He 
had shivered from head to foot when he 
watched the movements of the first fine 
horse he had ever beheld. Afterward Seth 
Deems had found him striving to reproduce 
the graceful animal on the door with a bit 
of chalk, and had given him several lashes 
with a whip, conveniently at hand, as a 
prompt reminder that there were still shoes 
to mend in the world. 

A great Japanese lily, pride of Hannah 
Stort’s flower-bed, had once held him 
spell-bound, gazing into its golden cup. 
The flight of sea-birds delighted him. 
Now it was a sleeping girl. 

Hannah Stort entered the room and ap- 
proached the sofa. No emotion was per- 
ceptible on her hard face, yet she paused to 
regard the sleeper. 

“ She’ll catch cold without something 
over her,” she muttered, in a hoarse whis- 
per, and touched a long tress of the bright 
hair with her bony finger, as if marvelling 
at its softness and fineness. 

The mother glanced up with a smile of 
gratitude. Even Hannah Stort thus paid a 
tribute to her child’s beauty. Ah ! if Nehe- 
miah Methley had only lived a little longer, 
and known Celia, lie must have loved her 
and made her his heiress ! 

Celia, possibly aroused by that hoarse 
w T hisper on the part of Hannah Stort, open- 
ed her eyes, laughed, and sat erect on the 
sofa, without fully comprehending where 
she was. 

“I’ve had such a strange dream, mam- 
ma,” she said, inclining her pretty head to- 
ward Hannah Stort without perceiving her 
proximity. “ One must laugh ! I seemed 
to be dressed in gold, soft like tissue, but 
pure gold all the same. You were obliged 
to shade your eyes when you looked at 
me.” 

“ Your dream was like a fairy tale,” said 
the mother, tenderly. 

“Yes,” replied the girl, rosy, confused, 
and still blinking with sleep. “The old 
woman here gave me the dress, though.” I 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

“ I gave it ?” ejaculated Hannah Stort, • 
and returned to her chair beside the stove. 

Celia faltered : 

“I beg your pardon; I did not know 
you were here. One forgets — ■” 

Her words merged into a faint cry ; she 
grew pale, and pointed to the window. 

“ I see a face !” she exclaimed, ner- 
vously. 

Hannah Stort went to the casement, flung 
it open, and peered out. 

“It must have been some scamp of a 
boy,” she said, and closed the shutters. 

John Winter had cowered out of sight. 

Silence succeeded, broken only by the 
ticking of the tall clock, and the soft, mo- 
notonous dripping of the rain. Hannah 
Stort went and came swiftly, noiselessly, on 
errands about the house, and to hold whis- 
pered consultations with the watchers in 
the chamber of death above-stairs, always 
returning to her seat beside the stove after- 
ward. She was the guardian of the for- 
tress. She had not slept or taken food on 
this terrible day, yet she uttered no word 
of weakness, and her vigilance knew no 
rest. Who besides herself could bolt the 
doors, wind the clock, secure the windows, 
now that Nehemiah Methley had ceased to 
perform these duties ? Deep down in her 
heart was an unflinching loyalty to the 
dead man which amounted to passion. If 
the minister and doctor had their places, 
she held her own as well, and the home- 
stead was still her kingdom. 

Celia yawned over a book she had fur- 
tively abstracted from the bookcase. It 
was the “ Destruction of Jerusalem,” by Jo- 
sephus, and her gaze often wandered .to her 
own gown of shabby black silk, in service 
many years, in remembrance of the gold- 
en raiment of her dream. Sometimes she 
glanced uneasily at Hannah Stort. The 
old woman in her corner acquired a weird 
and fantastic aspect from the shadow of 
her cap reflected on the wall. 

The mother did not attempt to read. 
Her temples throbbed, and strange fancies 
quivered through her brain, as startling as 
they were intangible. Fasting and an acute 
wakefulness had also been her portion, but 
she had not ventured to interfere with Han- 
nah Stort by a word of advice. Her place 
was to watch and wait, while the clock 
ticked and the rain dripped. She had not 
even the feminine solace of tears. The dead 
man had been neither known nor loved 
by her. To weep for him would be hypoc- 


23 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

risy. Even her slight intercourse with him 
had been casual and unexpected. 

Mrs. Bayard was the only child of a cous- 
in of Nehemiah Methley, and now alone in 
the world. She was a widow, and the span 
of her widowhood had been bitter and long 
in proportion as her w’edded life had been 
brief and happy. A romantic disposition, 
a graceful figure, and a pair of fine eyes 
had led her to elope, at the age of seven- 
teen, with a young lieutenant of the army. 
Her husband had been brave, handsome, 
generous, and the perfect felicity of their 
union had not been marred by the tiny pro- 
portions of the purse which so readily held 
their united w T ealth. The summer of mar- 
riage had been succeeded only too swiftly 
by the awful storms of autumn and winter. 

Celia Bayard was born in a Western fort. 
At the moment when she drew her first 
breath, a wailing infant, her young father 
lay dead on the plains some twenty miles 
distant, leader of a small band of soldiers 
surprised in ambush by a horde of hostile 
Indians. This was Celia’s martial baptism ; 
and, brief as was her connection with this 
branch of the service, she was never per- 
mitted to forget her own inherent gentility 
as belonging to the “ regular army ” — a term 
somewhat vague to the world at large, but 
which embodied the ambition of Mrs. Bay- 
ard’s heart. During the childhood of Celia 
this claim to consideration upheld the poor 
lady amidst the manifold trials of obscurity. 
She was the widow of an army officer ; Ce- 
lia was the daughter of a hero. Both held 
their heads very high in consequence, al- 
though their raiment was modest. One can 
be rich and vulgar, belonging to the civilian 
rank. One can also be proud, if poor and 
of the army. Such was the creed of Mrs. 
Bayard as she flitted uneasily from town 
to country, perched at the summit of city 
boarding-houses, or seeking some lonely 
farm-house of a mountain-side remote from 
fashionable resorts, as Celia’s health re- 
quired. She read many novels, and built 
air-castles for her beautiful child while she 
freshened and retrimmed old gowns, a vil- 
lage dress-maker being wholly beyond her 
means. 

Ten years before her visit to Herring- 
ville she had become aware that her sec- 
ond-cousin, Nehemiah Methley, was a mill- 
ionnaire. He was undoubtedly a common 
sort of person, yet she wrote him a letter, 
enclosing Celia’s photograph, in the hope 
of interesting him in the girl’s education. 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

Nehemiah Methley made no reply. Dis- 
couraged, but not silenced, by the rebuff, 
Mrs. Bayard continued to write from time 
to time. She received no prompt acknowl- 
edgment of these missives until she hint- 
ed that she desired to present Celia to her 
cousin. Then Nehemiah Methley wrote, 
curtly enough, declining the presentation. 
He stated that such meetings of relatives, 
distantly connected, and without mutual 
interests, invariably resulted in disappoint- 
ment. His practical broom of Power thus 
swept away all the gossamer threads of 
Fancy weaving in Mrs. Bayard’s brain 
with one stroke. The widow shivered, 
wept a little, and went back to her novel- 
reading and the repairing of a scanty ward- 
robe. At all times she was of a mercurial 
temperament. She waited, watched, and 
hoped. Recognition from Nehemiah Metji- 
ley having become impracticable, one might 
draw a prize in some lottery of chance or 
find a jewel in the street. Is it not true 
that such dreamers as Mrs. Bayard usually 
do find the jewel in the street or draw the 
lottery prize, in the end, after having been 
scoffed at by practical good-sense for their 
visions ? 

Ten years had thus elapsed. Two days 
ago she had stood in a bank of the city of 
Boston, transacting some trifling business, 
and with her daughter at her side. A dry, 
severe-looking man had emerged from an 
inner room, his egress accompanied by 
those affable salutations bestowed alone on 
persons of importance. He had glanced 
coldly at the widow and the young girl, 
and passed into the street. 

Mrs. Bayard, moved to sudden curiosity, 
inquired of a clerk, 

u Who is that gentleman ?” 

“Mr. Nehemiah Methley, the million- 
naire,” was the reply. 

“Quick! Celia!” 

Mrs. Bayard, flushed and frightened, fol- 
lowed her kinsman along the crowded 
thoroughfare. His face was unfamiliar to 
her, and yet she introduced herself to his 
notice. It was her opportunity. Spurred 
by a swift conviction that it was such, and 
acting on an impulse no less imperious, 
she had pursued him. 

Nehemiah Methley paused, scrutinized 
these two poor relations a moment, and ex- 
tended his hand. Evidently he was in a 
good -humor, even in high spirits. His 
eyes sparkled, and a little spot of red burn- 
ed on each sallow cheek. Usually he was 


27 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

a taciturn, even a morose man — the mood 
which had characterized his later years. 

He greeted Mrs. Bayard briefly, and took 
Celia by the chin, inspecting her fair face 
entirely without reference to the embar- 
rassment such a public scrutiny might oc- 
casion a young girl. Then he bade them 
follow him to his hotel. 

The result of this accidental encounter 
of relatives, previously unacquainted, had 
surprised Herringville yesterday. Nehe- 
miali Methley had returned home, accom- 
panied by the “ strange woman ” and her 
child. Nay, more, the attentions he be- 
stowed on his guests were no less assidu- 
ous than astonishing, for the millionnaire 
was not by nature a civil man. Mrs. Bay- 
ard was undecided whether to be flattered 
or terrified by her welcome. Occasionally 
an expression of stony amazement became 
apparent on the face of Hannah Stort, the 
house-keeper. 

Nehemiah Methley had played the host 
as if the part amused him; a sarcastic 
smile on his lips, a mocking politeness 
in his manner. He insisted on showing 
these strangers over the house, which had 
been built by his father, and to which his 
mother had come, a bride, so many years 
ago. 

Mrs. Bayard would retain a vivid picture 
of that evening until her death. Nehe- 
miah Methley escorted her about, carrying 
a candle. He unlocked doors and opened 
cabinets, now pausing before the worn 
family Bible on its table, now indicating a 
collection of treasures brought home by 
his brother, the captain, from long voyages. 
Finally he had produced a bottle of Mal- 
aga wine, also from among the captain’s 
treasures, and drunk the health of his fam- 
ily, always with the sarcastic smile on his 
lips, which would not have deceived a 
child. Hannah Stort had shaken her head 
gravely after bringing the requisite wine- 
glasses for the ceremony. 

Only last night ! Mrs. Bayard turned 
the phrase mechanically in her brain. The 
dead man had so recently lighted the shad- 
ows of the old homestead with a solitary 
candle, roaming from one deserted cham- 
ber to another, and now he was himself a 
shadow. In that ceaseless progression of 
life on earth, Nehemiah Methley had pass- 
ed on for others to fill his place. For oth- 
ers to fill his place? Who, then? Mrs. 
Bayard’s heart bounded; she pressed her 
hand on her breast to control its wild pul- 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

sations, and glanced involuntarily at Han- 
nah Stort in the corner. 

Hannah Stort was observing the widow, 
in turn, with a certain oblique scrutiny, 
silent and intent. 

“Would you like to live in this house?” 
she inquired, abruptly. 

Mrs. Bayard did not reply. The face of 
Nehemiah Methley drifted past beyond the 
lamp as she had last beheld it — a pinch- 
ed, ignoble face, from which the earlier 
flush of excitement had faded, leaving the 
opaque, yellow tint of wax, from which the 
light of interest, even the sarcastic smile, 
had also vanished, giving place to a dull, 
dolorous expression. It was the counte- 
nance of a man who might be found dead 
in his bed of heart-disease of a morning. 

Hannah Stort continued to watch her. 
At length the question was repeated in a 
hoarse tone. 

“ Would you like to live in this house ?” 

Celia, puzzled by the silence of her moth- 
er, replied for her, with youthful rashness 
and haste : 

“ Oh no ; not for anything in the world ; 
it is so ghostly and lonely. That is,” she 
added, confusedly, “ I was not born here, 
and am not used to the place, you know. 
My father was an officer in the army.” 

“ Humph !” said Hannah Stort. 

Mrs. Bayard recovered herself. 

“ Of course, if he had lived, and wished 
my daughter to remain with him, she would 
have been glad to do so,” the widow sup- 
plemented, with a reproving glance at 
Celia. 

“ No doubt,” said the old house-keeper, 
dryly. 

Eleven o’clock struck. Outside the rain 
dripped. Occasionally the heavy footstep 
of one of the watchers in the chamber of 
death creaked across the floor, breaking 
the oppressive silence of the house. 

“Must we sit here all night?” queried 
Celia, her voice subdued to an awe-struck 
whisper by her sombre surroundings in the 
dark room. 

“No; go to bed!” said Hannah Stort, 
decisively. 

Mother and daughter prepared to obey. 
On the threshold Celia paused, attracted 
and repelled by the strange figure of the 
house-keeper in the corner. 

“You should rest also,” she said, an in- 
flection of sympathy in her young voice, 
and patted Hannah Stort on the shoulder. 

Hannah smiled grimly. However, she 


28 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

retained her chair, where she sat with fold- 
ed arms, a sentinel on duty. 

The boy John Winter still crouched out- 
side the window. He had found a hole in 
the shutter, through which he peered into 
the room, half in boyish defiance of old 
Hannah Stort, and half from a sentiment 
of interest in the young girl. When she 
had withdrawn for the night, with that last 
word for the house-keeper, the curiosity of 
John Winter abated. He turned away in 
the darkness, and gained the door of the 
shoemaker. The hour was late ; the fami- 
ly had retired. John Winter knocked tim- 
idly ; he had no idea of the flight of time. 
Seth Deems growled a brutal threat, half 
asleep, and turned on his pillow. 

“ That lad’s come back, has he ? Wa’al, 
let the minister keep him if he wants him — ” 
a phrase which ended in a prolonged snore. 

The boy crept into the porch pf the ad- 
jacent shop, sheltering himself from the 
storm as best he could in his threadbare 
jacket, and prepared to spend the night. 
He said to himself : 

“On the day of Nehemiah Methley’s 
death I am locked out for the first time. If 
the captain was alive he would take me in.” 

With the soughing of the wind, and the 
soft, rustling sounds of the falling rain on 
the sear leaves of the trees and the tin pipe 
of the porch overhead, there came to the 
lonely youth a dream : 

A light shot across the darkness of mid- 
night; he rose to his feet and followed. 
At first the ray appeared to be that of the 
lamp in the Methley homestead, which had 
lured him from his appointment with the 
minister the previous evening. Flashing 
along the wet road, hovering in the air, the 
light dazzled his senses, until it gathered 
into a sphere of intense brilliancy above 
the surface of the brook, where it remained 
poised a moment, then sunk in expiring 
bubbles, gold and silver, beneath the limpid 
current. John moaned, and extended his 
hands to the empty air. There remained 
to him darkness, the rustling of the leaves 
beneath the falling rain, and the flow of the 
brook. Stay ! The dazzling sphere again 
revealed itself in the brook’s bed, a pale 
moonbeam seen beneath a running stream, 
a glorious sunbeam smiting aside the ripples, 
and then the semblance of delicate limbs, 
the outline of a form, the profile of a face, 
and small bent head. The sphere of light 
had become a woman, only white, as if fash- 
ioned by winter out of snow ; and the boy, 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

spellbound, gazed at her through the shift- 
ing mists of luminous waters. 

This was the first revelation of the beau- 
tiful to the soul of John Winter. In his 
ignorance, profound and yet not blind, he 
had no name wherewith to christen his 
dream. 


CHAPTER II. 

JOHN WINTER VISITS AN OLD HOUSE. 

Next morning Seth Deems, shoemaker, 
awoke in the very bad humor of a drunk- 
ard requiring the first dram at the tavern 
to mollify his irascibility. He sought any 
pretext for an explosion of temper, and 
found one readily in the boy John Win- 
ter, crouching against the shop - door, t still 
asleep. 

The bloodshot eye of the shoemaker 
gleamed. He administered a kick to his 
delinquent apprentice. The latter awoke, 
shivered, and rose to his feet. Seth Deems 
could not resist seizing John and shaking 
him violently, although his respect for pub- 
lic opinion prevented more active chastise- 
ment. The shoemaker loudly proclaimed 
his own generosity and forbearance with 
the orphan, especially when in maudlin 
mood, while expatiating on his trials with 
such an idiot — a lad so manifestly inferior 
in capacity to the average village boy. In 
these statements, more or less hypocritical, 
there was undoubtedly a germ of truth. 

John Winter swayed in his grasp like a 
reed, and without resistance. His expres- 
sion was confused and bewildered, as of 
one not fully awake. 

“There!” ejaculated Seth Deems, with 
an oath. “ Play me such a trick agin, and 
I’ll break every bone in your body. Do 
ye hear ? Every bone, as sure’s I’m alive ! 
Ye don’t deserve nothin’ to eat, but get 
along to breakfast and work. Sharp’s the 
word this morning, I can tell ye 1” 

Thus admonished, John Winter slunk 
into the kjtchen, where Mrs. Deems gave 
him, grudgingly, a fragment of cold corn- 
bread and a cup of muddy coffee. 

Mrs. Deems was a sour and querulous 
woman, disposed to take a dismal view of 
life. Her scanty gray hair was twisted in 
a knot at the back of her head, and her 
faded calico gown was pinned awry at the 
throat. She lectured John Winter, after her 
own fashion, while he partook of his frugal 
repast. He listened in silence, if he heard 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

at all. The acrid words of Mrs. Deems, 
losing none of their sting because of the 
volubility of the speaker, were more dread- 
ed by the apprentice than the boot and fist 
of his brutal master. Mrs. Deems struck 
blows only with a hail of words, and from 
this punishment there was no escape. The 
discouraged wife of the tipsy shoemaker in- 
veighed against destiny in scolding John 
Winter. She hurled at him those bitter sar- 
casms intended for her husband, secure in 
the impunity of addressing the apprentice 
in such terms as she considered best. The 
petty triumph of this power was the solace 
of Mrs. Deems’s existence, the one drop of 
retaliation in her brimming cup of wrongs. 

Breakfast finished, John Winter escaped 
to the work-room, and took up his shoe. 
Seth Deems soon returned from the direc- 
tion of the tavern. He lighted his clay- 
pipe, found fault with John’s stitching, and 
applied himself to his own task. The boy 
worked as usual. He never sung, whistled, 
or spoke unnecessarily in the shop. 

At eleven o’clock he rose, removed his 
apron, and walked to the door. 

“ Where be you goin’ now ?” inquired 
Seth Deems, setting his teeth menacingly. 

“To the brook,” replied John Winter, 
slowly, and with the appearance of a som- 
nambulist. 

The shoemaker sprung upon him and 
felled him to the ground. His rage was 
frightful to behold; his own brain became 
clouded, his eyes suffused. To beat the 
prostrate boy who continually defied him 
was his only thought. What! His ap- 
prentice, his chattel, the orphan bound to 
himself, an honest and industrious shoemak- 
er, to be permitted indulgence in every ca- 
price of a disordered brain ! Going to the 
brook in work-hours, forsooth ! The wail- 
ing interposition of his wife stayed his 
heavy hand. 

“ Don’t add murder to your other sins, 
for the Lord’s sake !” cried Mrs. Deems, in 
her most piercing tones. 

The shoemaker glared at her, but her 
words were like a thin stream of ice-water 
falling on his heated brain. Seth Deems 
had a wholesome dread of the law. 

“ This must stop right here !” he shout- 
ed, when he could control his voice suffi- 
ciently to address the object of his wrath. 

“ I’ll find a way to keep ye in the shop, if 
I have to send you to the county jail or 
the House of Correction. You’d better be- 
lieve I mean what I say.” 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 29 

John Winter once more regained his feet, 
and resumed his place at the bench. Seth 
Deems eyed him with contempt. Had he 
evinced more spirit, given blows and words 
in exchange for those received, the shoe- 
maker would have respected him. Nat- 
ures like that of John Winter are slow in 
awakening. It is only when they are fully 
aroused that an adversary need look to 
himself, and then the chances are that he 
will be taken wholly by surprise. 

The shop-door was opened at this mo- 
ment by a peddler whose wagon had paused 
outside. Seth Deems hastened to greet a 
comrade of congenial tastes. The peddler 
was a prosperous man, and his vehicle re- 
sembled a little house on wheels, the differ- 
ent compartments resembling the respec- 
tive stories, terminating in a roof, well 
stocked with ribbons and trimmings. 

Seth Deems threw aside labor for the 
day, and departed with the peddler to a 
favorite cider -bar held in a barn. Mrs. 
Deems withdrew to her kitchen, groaning-, 
and foreseeing the miserable results of an af- 
ternoon of tippling on her husband. John 
Winter was left alone. For half an hour 
he continued to stitch soberly ; then he rose, 
again removed his apron, and took up his 
cap. Had the suspicious eye of Mrs. 
Deems beheld him, she would have been 
surprised. Through a cloud of sullenness 
and doubt, a new element of defiance and 
firmness had imprinted a certain manliness 
on his features. He did not steal away, 
trusting to the opportune absence of Seth 
Deems, but deliberately walked out of the 
door, closing it behind him. Had he met 
the shoemaker on the threshold he would 
not have flinched. Seth Deems might 
knock him down, trample on him, rend 
him limb from limb; yet when he again 
rose, if life remained, he would go out af- 
terward. There exists in humanity this es- 
sence of individuality, which escapes the 
most crushing, grinding tyranny, and de- 
fies it. 

John Winter pressed his cap down over 
his eyes, and sought the brook. 

The day was as fine as the previous one 
had been sad and gloomy. A clear sky 
arched above the village; on the horizon 
the sea was of a deeper, colder blue than 
usual, and an occasional white crest was 
visible. 

The boy gained the brook, and looked 
eagerly about him. Alas ! the trees along 
the margin were still fringed with scanty 


80 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

foliage, russet and yellow, and the birds 
hopped about among the branches; but 
the brook flowing along its pebbly chan- 
nel, tawny in hue from recent rains, reveal- 
ed in its depths no dazzling sphere of 
light, changing to a woman of snow. It 
was only a little brook, wandering down 
between the hills and through the rushes 
of the meadow, making its own music in 
the shadowy pools beneath the foot-bridge, 
then sliding out into the sunshine of noon- 
day again, as if rejoicing in its own free- 
dom. 

John Winter knew no fairy lore. He had 
never heard of the nymphs peopling the 
fountains and springs of older lands, or of 
the fauns that hide among the reeds ; yet 
he discovered a mockery in the voice of 
the brook. The streamlet dimpled and 
laughed at his disappointment. For an in- 
stant he yielded to the dangerous spell 
woven by sparkling water. Should he dive 
to the bottom of the brook, and wrench 
from it the secret of the snow -woman? 
Who was she ? What relationship did she 
bear to those effigies fashioned from the 
first harvest of winter, welded together in 
many a snow-ball by the boys of Herring- 
ville, and left to acquire ghostly propor- 
tions in the frosty night ? 

He leaned on the railing of the foot- 
bridge, and turned the matter over in his 
mind. The glorious vision of his dream 
when he had slept on the shoemaker’s door- 
step resembled the young girl visiting in 
the house of Nehemiali Methley as a dream 
may resemble reality, only with this distinc- 
tion in comparison — the girl was the shad- 
ow, while the snowy figure of the brook 
was the reality . , This connecting link of 
interest diverted his meditations. He de- 
serted the stream almost petulantly, and 
turned toward the Methley homestead. 
His purpose was sufficiently vague. Last 
night, the curiosity inspired by hearing his 
name linked with that of the missing Cap- 
tain Methley had led him to peep in a 
window ; to-day, interest in the young girl 
led him in the same direction. Herring- 
ville would have been more firmly con- 
vinced than ever of the boy’s feeble wits 
had his reason for seeking the stranger 
been given. He longed to see the girl's head 
and face in profile, as he had beheld the snow- 
woman through the spray of silvery waters ! 

The homestead still wore that muffled 
and lugubrious aspect so characteristic of 
mansions where the owner still lies en- 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

shrined in the majesty of death. The green 
shutters were closed, while the window of 
the sitting-room alone was open, and that 
in an oblique and apologetic fashion, as if 
the hand of Hannah Stort had hesitated 
about making such a compromise with the 
day. The front gate was closed, and the 
fallen leaves drifted down softly on the lit- 
tle path leading to the front-door. Tins 
portal, solemn and disused, explained all 
left unrevealed by the remainder of the 
house. The eye, which failed to discern 
the meaning of closely -veiled casements, 
chimneys devoid of smoke, the mysterious 
errands of messengers appearing and van- 
ishing at the rear of the premises, could not 
fail to read the significance of the closed 
front gate and the entrance - door, which 
would next open for the master on the day 
of the funeral. Nehemiah Methley was 
dead, and his house mourned for him with 
every outward observance of respect. 

John Winter advanced to the sitting-room 
window. The room was deserted. Before 
he was aware of his own intentions he had 
vaulted over the sill, and stood beside the 
already familiar table and sofa. His eye 
brightened, and his heart began to beat 
more rapidly. In the stillness, the sombre 
atmosphere which pervaded the whole in- 
terior, something of the sweet influences of 
an old homestead which treasures many 
memories reached the heart of John Win- 
ter, an outcast. For the first time he real- 
ized that he was homeless and alone. He 
listened intently a moment, then approach- 
ed the door. He heard the ticking of the 
tall clock, and occasionally the confused 
murmur of voices, subdued in tone. To 
whom did these voices belong? Where 
was the dead man ? Above all, where was 
the young girl ? The daring intruder went 
along the hall unmolested. At the foot of 
the staircase he met Hannah Stort’s cat. 
The animal purred, rubbed herself against 
his foot, yawned, and strolled toward the 
garden with that aspect of impish indiffer- 
ence to surrounding circumstances peculiar 
to cats. No faithful house-dog gazed at 
him with dumb anguish of mourning in his 
honest, intelligent eyes. 

John Winter gained the landing above. 
He must be near the awful mystery now. 
The lid of a new coffin rested against the 
wall in the hall. He did not flinch. For 
the first time in his life, he wished to see 
Nehemiah Methley. Yes, he dared to look 
at the proud millionnaire in his shroud, 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

who had never glanced at him, save with 
the coldest, sternest disapproval of his ex- 
istence. 

On the right hand was a half- opened 
door ; he crossed the threshold, and gazed 
curiously about him. He found himself in 
a square room, chill in its habitual seclu- 
sion. An old-fashioned bedstead, with 
four posts, occupied one corner; angular 
chairs, covered with horse-hair and stud- 
ded with brass nails, were ranged stiffly 
against the w T all ; between the windows 
was a mahogany bureau, perched on slen- 
der legs, and ornamented with brass han- 
dles. This had been the chamber of Nehe- 
miah Methley’s parents during their long 
wedded life. On the wall hung a portrait 
of Mrs. Methley as a blooming bride, in 
a green gown, with a fur tippet around her 
neck, and her hair plastered closely to her 
face, like two little curtains looped aside 
from her temples. Opposite was the por- 
trait of Mr. Methley, his throat swathed in 
the folds of a voluminous cravat, and his 
blue coat resplendent with gilt buttons. 
The round, staring eyes of these founders 
of the house became fixed on John Winter 
with the startling intelligence of portraits 
in following a moving object with their 
gaze. The eyes of the bride rested on the 
boy with an expression of mild surprise ; 
those of the bridegroom with suspicion 
and dislike. Evidently some wandering 
artist had replenished his purse, years 
before, by ministering to the complacent 
Methley vanity. The first perception of 
the beauty of art in man has ever been 
evinced by a desire to have his own coun- 
tenance copied, or those of his family. 

John Winter, troubled by the scrutiny, 
roamed on. Certainly the old house was 
bewitching his imagination. In sleep the 
dreamer thus gropes his way through a 
labyrinth, fearful yet fascinated. 

The adjoining room was long and narrow. 
John uttered an exclamation of surprise, 
and paused on the threshold, incredulous 
and dazzled. A ray of sunshine had pene- 
trated the shutters, and slanted across the 
room like a bar of quivering gold. The 
light also smote colors from surrounding 
objects— the gorgeous plumage of tropical 
birds, the blended hues of rich fabrics in 
glass-cases, and standards of Oriental weap- 
ons inlaid with silver and pearl. Nehe- 
miah Methley had converted this narrow 
chamber into a repository of the harvest 
brought home by his brother, the captain. 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 31 

Nehemiah Methley neither valued nor liked 
these objects, but he would not part with 
them, and they had been treasured here 
out of his way. That was all. 

John Winter never knew how long a 
time actually elapsed wliile he stood gaz- 
ing at the sailor’s harvest of other lands. 
This collection, gathered so carelessly, fed 
his hungry eyes with a feast of color. He 
was dumb — lost in an ecstasy. 

The vivid flame of a Chinese shawl fell 
across the subdued tints of an Indian man- 
tle ; the creamy-white folds of an Algerine 
burnous contrasted with the gold embroid- 
eries of divan -covers from Cairo. A By- 
zantine Madonna of a Russian holy picture 
— obtained Heaven knows where ! — gazed 
down at the boy, dark and mysterious, 
amidst the gilding of her aureole and robe. 
Boxes and caskets of sandal-wood, ivor} r , 
and silver were heaped together; carved 
idols and pagodas were surrounded by por- 
celain cups and saucers, tinted the delicate 
green of the tea-leaf, and decorated with 
flowers and butterflies. Over all, the birds 
poised their fragile wings and glowing 
breasts, imparting an appearance of life 
and motion to the inanimate objects group- 
ed below. 

Suddenly the opposite door opened. 
John Winter turned mechanically to con- 
front the new-comer, secure in the con- 
sciousness that no person could rob him 
of what he had seen. 

The young girl Celia Bayard slid into 
the room with a light and dancing step. 
She betrayed neither fear nor surprise. 
She was a stranger, and did not know who 
this boy might be or by what right he was 
here. Besides, her natural impulses were 
amiable. 

“You like the birds?” she whisper- 
ed, glancing around. “The sea-captain 
brought them home from his voyages, you 
know. Mamma says some of these things 
are very valuable.” 

“Yes,” assented John Winter, looking 
at her attentively. 

“You must not stare like that !” pursued 
Celia, with a little gesture of condescen- 
sion. 

“ No,” assented John Winter. 

He stepped back, and studied the side 
of her small head and delicate profile. 
Then he added, in a joyous and animated 
tone, 

“ Oh, you are like her !” 

“Like some person of your acquaint- 


32 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

ance ?” inquired the young girl, puzzled. 
“Your sister, perhaps.” 

“ No, no ! I mean the snow-woman of 
the brook,” said John, absently. 

Celia made a movement toward the door. 

“You talk nonsense,” she said, stiffly. 

• She paused and reflected. 

“ He is in the room across the hall,” she 
continued, with a shudder. “ Oh, did you 
ever see a dead person ?” 

“Yes,” said John, slowly. “I have seen 
three dead people.” 

“ How terrible !” murmured Celia, with a 
shade of respect in her tone. 

She was conscious of a sentiment of 
friendliness toward this unknown boy, who 
represented life and strength in this dark 
house, where preparations were being made 
for the grave. 

“ I saw mother, grandpa, and grandma 
die,” said John, steadily. 

Celia’s large, soft eyes clouded with sym- 
pathy. 

“ Poor boy !” she said, softly, and touched 
his arm w T ith her little fingers. 

She would have extended the same com- 
passion to a wounded bird or a lame dog. 
Nobody had ever bestowed the same glance 
on John Winter before. 

“Don’t!” he exclaimed, brusquely, and 
moved away from the touch of the light 
hand. 

Celia was not looking at him; her eyes 
strayed to the glass-cases of the curiosities. 

“ I never saw a dead man,” she shivered. 
“ I do not dare to look at this — Nehemiali 
Methley. My papa was killed in battle 
with the Indians ; he was an army officer.” 

Her words made music in the boy’s ear. 
To fight battles was to live, perhaps. The 
ray of sunshine penetrating the room il- 
luminated the captain’s museum and fell on 
the heads of these two. Celia’s mobile feat- 
ures changed ; she drew her breath quickly, 
as if actuated by an alarming thought. 

“Would you be afraid to go in there?” 
she inquired. 

“No.” 

“ Come with me, then. I am afraid to 
peep in the door all alone.” 

John Winter followed her across the hall. 
Together they reached the threshold of 
Nehemiali Methley’s room — that sanctuary 
■which Herringville strove to pierce with 
lively curiosity, and which would not be 
unveiled to public scrutiny until the hour 
of the funeral. 

The shrine of death was very cold, mourn- 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

ful, and barren, as if every pulsation had 
been checked and frozen. On the disman- 
tled bed was a rigid form, covered with a 
linen sheet which fell in smooth folds to 
the floor, as the winter storm obliterates 
the familiar landmark of yesterday evening. 
At the foot of the bed was the coffin, re- 
cently deposited there by the undertaker. 

John Winter approached the corpse ; Ce- 
lia Bayard, terrified, turned and fled noise- 
lessly. He did not perceive her absence. 
There "was a singing in his ears ; his heart 
throbbed tumultuously; his knees smote 
together. He moved the covering and 
looked at the dead man. Nehemiali Meth- 
ley, in his last sleep, told the boy nothing. 
The thin lips were more firmly closed than 
in life, if possible, and the shadow of a 
smile, subtle and inscrutable, rested on the 
impassive lineaments. 

It was John Winter’s turn' to flee, and 
with a sensation of cold in all his members. 
He longed to leave the house of Nehemiali 
Methley in a panic of blind fear. He missed 
Celia Bayard for the first time, and, in his 
confusion, took the wrong direction. He 
was in a narrow passage, with a door at 
the other extremity. He paused, reflected, 
and moved forward. He would not return 
through the chamber of death to gain again 
the hall and staircase. Yes, he was afraid. 
Instead he turned the handle of the second 
door. He saw a room scarcely larger than 
a closet. The walls were lined with shelves 
filled with books ; a w T orn desk placed in 
the window held a battered inkstand, a 
sand-box, and a rack of rusty pens. Han- 
nah Stort was standing beside this desk, 
bending over an open box placed on the 
floor. In her hand she held a folded paper 
which she had been reading. 

John Winter could have readily with- 
drawn, so apparent was her absolution, had 
not the contents of the box attracted him 
irresistibly. He lingered and was lost! 
The box was one of those receptacles of 
ornamented wood which contained the gun- 
powder-tea so highly prized by our grand- 
mothers. A tray fitted in the top, serving 
as an inner lid, and was made to resemble 
a bed of flowers. These variegated blos- 
soms, vibrating on their stems while butter- 
flies hovered among them, had caught the 
eye of John Winter, and before he withdrew 
them Hannah Stort saw and recognized 
him. 

She uttered a hoarse scream, despite her 
proximity to the chamber of death, and ran 


33 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


toward this intruder, as if to bar his fur- 
ther advance into her dominion. The boy- 
paused, stunned and beaten down by the 
torrent of abuse poured upon him by the 
angry old woman. Her tone was so vio- 
lent, her bitter words so incoherent, the 
blazing light in her little, sharp eyes so 
startling when they rested on him, that 
John, in sheer surprise, was cowed and si- 
lenced. Certainly he had before encoun- 
tered glances of indifference, contempt, and 
even of stern disapproval, in the village; but 
Hannah Stort, overwhelmed by emotion at 
his audacious intrusion, concentrated on 
him a look of furious, impotent hatred. 

“You here!” she stormed, her hands 
shaking with agitation. “ It becomes you 
to steal into a house where you are not 
wanted.” 

“ I am not a thief,” stammered John. “ I 
have taken nothing. I wished — ” 

“ Hush ! You dare to answer me !” pur- 
sued Hannah Stort, in a lower tone, as if 
remembering her surroundings. “This is 
no place for you. If you ever come again 
I will give you in charge to the constable. 
A vagabond, a spy, a loafer !” 

John wrenched away the arm she had 
clutched in her long, bony fingers ; a flush 
of anger mounted to his cheek. 

“I am not afraid of you,” he muttered, 
defiantly. 

“Not afraid of me?” repeated Hannah 
Stort, shrilly. “ You had better be, my fine 
lad. I s’pose your mother told you to come 
here when Nehemiah Methley died, eli ? 
What did she expect to gain for herself or 
you ? We do not take in tramps here; we 
are respectable people in this house.” 

“The captain is kind,” rejoined John, 
and quite irrelevantly, yet with his own eye 
kindling. 

Hannah Stort recoiled a step and frowned. 
She strove to control the nervous trembling 
of her whole body by folding her arms. 

“The captain was a godless man,” she 
retorted, menacingly ; “ besides, you would 
get nothing from him. Go back to Setli 
Deems’s bench, where you belong. Your 
mother was a great sinner. You will end, 
likely, in jail or the poor-house.” 

“How dare you speak of my mother, 
you wicked old woman I” 

These burning words seethed in the 
brain of John Winter. Later he could not 
decide whether he had uttered them aloud, 
or they had swept over his whole being, 
unuttered, a wrath flowing in his very veins. 


He never knew if he had struck Hannah 
Stort full in the face, or simply desired ar- 
dently to do so before he gained the land- 
ing of the kitchen stairs. Once outside 
the room, he glanced back. Hannah Stort 
had seated herself on the wooden stool, and, 
with her elbow resting on the desk, was in- 
dulging in a flood of tears. The Chinese 
box was open on the floor, with its tray of 
fantastic butterflies and flowers, while the 
old woman’s right hand still grasped the 
folded paper, from which her fingers had 
never once relaxed their hold during her 
unexpected interview with John Winter. 

The latter departed. A confused variety 
of images occupied his thoughts — the cap- 
tain’s museum, the young girl, the chamber 
of Nehemiah Methley, with its silent inmate, 
and Hannah Stort confronting him, wrath- 
ful yet tremulous. 

At the gate he formed a fresh resolution. 
He climbed the hill to the cemetery, found 
the obscure nook where his mother and his 
grandparents were buried, and seated him- 
self on the grass. No head-stone marked 
the humble grave of Martha Winter ; bri- 
ers and weeds already flourished in the 
sod above her. The lonely boy, on whose 
shoulders the mantle of her fault had fall- 
en so heavily, came here by instinct rather 
than from preference. There was no senti- 
ment involved in this pilgrimage. John 
Winter held the cemetery in wholesome 
boyish aversion, as a mystery not soon to 
be solved by himself. Yet he was here. 

There came back to him a painful infan- 
cy when every face, save one, was unfriend- 
ly, especially the harsh and withered linea- 
ments of his grandparents. 

There came back to him a shrinking, 
cowed childhood, when he had hidden be- 
hind his mother’s skirts in traversing the 
village street. 

There came back to him the coldness of 
long winter nights in the little red house 
by the brook, where his grandparents lived, 
when he had awakened from a first sleep in 
his little bed, to see his mother still seated 
before the waning fire, her hands folded, 
her head bent : a young woman, stricken 
old before her time by suffering, branded 
by public condemnation, patient, reserved, 
faithfully performing such work as any one 
would give her, and with her lips firmly 
closed on a secret which Herringville would 
fain have discovered : who was the father 
of John? This childhood had been mark- 
ed by one event. In the spring evening 


34 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


his mother had taken him by the hand 
and ran toward the beach, a quiver of color 
and light on her usually pale face. The 
fog hung like a white veil over the village 
and the sea. A man waited for them on 
the strand. He turned and greeted Martha 
Winter. It was the captain, burly, bronzed, 
jovial in manner — a sailor whose stories 
fascinated all listeners in Squire Nuthall’s 
store, albeit his language was somewhat 
strongly flavored at times, and who in 
turn found the village a tiny harbor for 
his energies, accustomed to his own quar- 
ter-deck and a horizon of breezy mid- 
ocean. He conversed with Martha Winter 
in a low, confidential tone ; she listened, her 
face eagerly lifted to his, her ear drinking 
in every word. Then succeeded expostula- 
tions— the captain’s tones rough but kindly, 
and sobs on the part of Martha. He offer- 
ed her money ; she refused to accept it. 

“ I will remain here where I was born,” 
she had affirmed, obstinately. 

The captain had patted John on the 
head kindly. 

“ Poor little man !” he said, and slipped a 
gold coin into his palm. 

Never before or since had John held so 
much money. He clutched it fist, and 
trotted after his mother at the termination 
of the interview. When Martha discover- 
ed the gold, she wrenched it away and ran 
back, calling the captain by name, as if in 
fear. The captain had disappeared. The 
young woman paused on the beach, the 
fog drifting about her in closely envelop- 
ing folds ; she raised her hand with a pas- 
sionate gesture, and tossed the coin into 
the sea. 

“ Never take money from him !” she cried, 
bending her white face, from which all hope 
had faded, over her child. 

John began to weep vaguely, robbed of 
the glittering treasure. 

There came back .to him an hour when 
his mother did not rise from the little bed 
in the corner of the room, and the neigh- 
bors flocked about her. At the last mo- 
ment her eyes sought John, and she strove 
to speak. The neighbors looked at each 
other, silently awaiting the revelation of 
Martha Winter, which never came, for she 
died with the words hovering on her pale 
lips. Poor soul ! Yes, certainly she would 
have confessed the truth in the end, the 
neighbors thought. Her secret was al- 
ready known. The fog of the spring even- 
ing had not concealed the captain’s final 


interview with mother and child on the 
beach from inquisitive Herringville. Pos- 
sibly Nehemiah Methley might do some- 
thing for the boy ? No, the village million- 
naire passed by on the other side. 

There came back to him the dreary still- 
ness of the little red house by the brook. 
The only daughter of this humble home 
had gone astray, and was dead ; the blow 
to family pride was keenly felt. Grandfa- 
ther, lapsing to childishness, with his arm- 
chair placed in the sun, demanded of ev- 
ery one, in rambling fashion, even of John 
himself, how the misfortune had transpired. 
Martha was such a steady, likely sort of 
girl — the best scholar in the village academy, 
and one day its school-mistress — until she 
went away on the visit from which she re- 
turned so changed. Why had his daugh- 
ter brought such shame on him ? 

There came back to the musing boy an 
autumn when grandfather no longer sat in 
the patch of warm sunshine, and he was 
transferred from school to the bench of 
Seth Deems’s workshop. 

At this juncture in his meditations John 
Winter rose and quitted the cemetery. In 
one corner some men were digging a fresh 
grave, under the superintendence of the 
sexton. John, surmised that the rich man, 
even against his own will, would next be 
brought here. 

The boy was overwhelmed by a thought 
no less impetuous than startling. It came 
to him from the dying leaves at his feet; 
from the crisp, sparkling October breeze 
wandering over the hills ; from the line of 
blue waters tossing and surging on the 
horizon — nay, from the clear sky overhead. 

He would go away . 

He saw Seth Deems, his querulous wife, 
and Hannah Stort driving him forth to ex- 
ile. Why ? He could not tell. Rage fill- 
ed his heart. He hated Seth Deems and 
his sallow wife. He hated Hannah Stort ; 
even Squire Nuthall, and the group of 
loungers in the store. His sudden wrath 
extended to inanimate objects as well. 
He hated the old homestead of Nehemiah 
Methley ; the shoemaker’s work-room, with 
its one small window; the very meeting- 
house on the hill. That longing for pow- 
er, unlimited power over his fellow-creat- 
ures, which every child experiences in a 
moment of violent rebellion, and which 
often characterizes “the child of larger 
growth,” possessed him. Oh, for the 
right and the strength to mete out meas- 


35 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


ure for measure on unconscious little Her- 
ringyille ! Oh, for a firebrand capable of 
scattering and destroying with the might 
of devouring flame, to cast at slumber- 
ing self-complacency and selfishness ! He 
would have spared none as he sped down 
the hill once more. Possibly his mind was 
imbued with Biblical pictures of the proph- 
ets, and their visions of swift retribution, 
gleaned from the minister’s lips of a Sun- 
day. . 

He paused at the foot of the hill. He 
possessed a friend in Herringville ; one to 
whom distinctions of social condition were 
not yet clearly defined. This was the doc- 
tor’s baby; and as the baby had adopted 
him, the young mother naturally smiled on 
John Winter. The doctor’s wife stoutly 
maintained that John was a good-hearted 
lad, and not at all silly. Had he not ad- 
mired the baby ? In turn, the child crow- 
ed and dimpled at his approach, and 
clutched at his hair with the same amia- 
bility she would have bestowed on a boy 
of better position. A strange youth, cer- 
tainly! One day he had looked at the 
baby’s hand with absorbed admiration — 
a baby’s hand, with tiny fingers transpar- 
ent toward the tips, and rosy palm, merg- 
ing into dimpled wrist, with indescribably 
minute and tender curves of soft, velvety 
flesh ! 

“ Oh, how pretty it is !” John had ex- 
claimed. 

The doctor’s wife, holding her child on 
her arm, had smiled at him across the gar- 
den fence, with something of the ineffable 
sweetness and dignity of maternity infused 
into the benignant eyes of the Madonna 
gazing at the devout who bow before the 
Infant Jesus of the early Italian masters. 

Next morning John had brought a bit 
of paper on which he had drawn the 
baby’s hand. She pronounced the sketch 
charming, and pinned it to the w'all of the 
sitting-room. John shook his head. 

“ If it was only round, and not flat,” he 
murmured, his glance straying, as if he 
sought something. 

Then the young mother spoke to her 
husband about the poor boy who admired 
the baby so much. Why could they not 
rescue him from brutal Seth Deems, and 
make of him an office-assistant ? The doc- 
tor demurred. One must not rashly med- 
dle with an apprentice, especially with a 
rival practitioner established not many 
miles distant. Later, when John Winter 


had served his time, the doctor would con- 
sider what could be done for him in event 
of his not wishing to be a shoemaker. 
John continued loyal to the baby, igno- 
rant of these projects for his future welfare. 
He gathered bright flowers, and found 
shells for her. In return he desired only 
a glimpse of her hand or foot. Once he 
was permitted to see her in a little bath- 
tub, where this miracle of rounded limbs 
and dimpled shoulders laughed at him, with 
the drops of water clinging to her curls. 

He seldom attempted to kiss or fondle 
the baby while submitting to her caprices. 
The mother discovered much propriety in 
this reserve. The truth was, her child ap- 
pealed to John Winter’s eye and imagina- 
tion rather than to his affections. 

Descending the hill, he observed a spot 
of color before the Gothic cottage. This 
spot of color proved, on closer inspection, 
to be the baby, in scarlet jacket and hood, 
taking an airing in the arms of the lit- 
tle nurse-maid. John paused to kiss the 
child, his black thoughts vanishing in her 
presence. He was going away ; he should 
never see her again. 

Just then the doctor’s wife appeared at 
the kitchen window, her sleeves rolled up 
and traces of flour on her pretty arms, 
while a large apron covered her neat dress. 
The flush on her face, and the delicious 
odors of spices, hot sugar, and molasses 
floating through the window, all betrayed 
her occupation. 

“Wait!” she exclaimed. 

She vanished, returned, and bestowed on 
the baby’s playmate some crisp cakes from 
the oven. She did not realize that these 
cakes would furnish his sole food for the 
remainder of the day. He received them 
awkwardly, looked at her wistfully a mo- 
ment, and went away. 

John Winter had left Herringville, but 
nobody missed him. 

Evening came. Seth Deems and the ped- 
dler dozed in the bar-room of the tavern. 
Mrs. Deems prepared her lonely cup of tea 
without surprise that John had deserted 
his post. 

Two days later, while great events still 
disturbed the usual tranquillity of village 
life, the minister returned home slowly and 
thoughtfully. The boy John Winter had 
disappeared. The news disturbed the min- 
ister. In his prayer he remembered the 
wanderer— the sole prayer uttered for John 
in Herringville. 


36 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

The doctor’s baby dimpled and crowed, 
clutching at the hair of the butcher’s boy, 
and gazing at bright flowers brought by 
other hands than those of the shoemaker’s 
apprentice. 

“ Let him go,” growled Seth Deems. “ It 
wflll be a fine day for me if I never see the 
lad agin.” 


CHAPTER III. 

THE BOBE OF GOLD. 

The day of Nehemiah Methley’s funeral 
arrived. Excitement prevailed in Herring- 
ville and the surrounding country. Every- 
body prepared to attend the last rites ac- 
corded the millionnaire. 

At an early hour the farmers flocked to 
the village, and fastened their horses in the 
wooden sheds adjacent to the meeting- 
house on the hill. The farmer whose prop- 
erty was mortgaged, and who owed the 
late Nehemiah Methley money, affirmed 
that “ it beat all how some folks got on in 
the world,” while covering his white mare 
^ with a tattered blanket in the above men- 
tioned shed. The prosperous farmer, with 
whom Nehemiah Methley had driven a 
close bargain over a bit of land, opined 
that he would feel strangely at a loss for 
an occupation in heaven if not turning a 
penny to the disadvantage of another. 
This last heresy was uttered in a low, 
grumbling tone, as the speaker assisted his 
womenkind to alight at the door of Miss 
Toppe^the milliner. 

Miss Toppe attended the funeral in a 
bonnet prepared overnight for the occa- 
sion. This bonnet, which may be termed 
a sort of mournful advertisement on the 
part of an enterprising artist, combined a 
judicious quantity of black lace and lute- 
string ribbon, with a purple flower placed 
on one side. Herring ville had donned 
Sunday raiment, down to the smallest boy, 
whose stiffly-starched collar was an afflic- 
tion inseparably associated with church- 
going in his youthful mind. As a rule, 
the head-covering of the community still 
bloomed with flowers and feathers of a 
startling hue. 

Squire Nuthall, more grave and taciturn 
than usual, in a coat of broadcloth, and 
with shining boots, sorted the United 
States mail, somewhat abstractedly, behind 
the little glass partition of the office, and 
was proved later to have made a mistake 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

in postage, for the first time on record. 
Finally, the cart of the young butcher rat- 
tled into town at a great pace, and Samuel, 
still in his apron, and with his eyes more 
round than usual, joined the group of fish- 
ermen on Squire Nuthall’s steps, in defiance 
of the routine of duty. 

At two o’clock a thrill of expectation 
moved all hearts. James Blake, undertak- 
er, drove up to the gate of the Methley 
homestead in the village hearse. 

Simultaneously with the advent of this 
rusty vehicle, which embodied all the mys- 
terious terrors of Charon’s boat to the chil- 
dren, the front-door opened, and the sexton 
appeared on the threshold, while the shut- 
ters of the windows were flung back one 
by one, and the daylight w T as permitted to 
fall coldly on the small panes. The minis- 
ter and young doctor approached along 
the road. 

The hour had come when Nehemiah 
Methley would receive his world. Her- 
ringville attended to a man. Herringville 
crowded into the large, old-fashioned par- 
lor where the host awaited all — in his cof- 
fin — thronged the upper hall, furtively tried 
doors locked by the vigilant hand of Han- 
nah Stort, and perched on the staircase. 
Herringville listened devoutly to the dis- 
course of the old minister, which was sol- 
emn and tremulous, while glancing about 
everywhere — scanning a curtain, a lamp, a 
piece of furniture, if feminine; mentally 
calculating the wealth left behind him by 
Nehemiah Methley, since he could carry 
none beyond the grave, if masculine. 

The most conflicting elements warred in 
this village heart— respect, fear of death, 
envy, and a certain degree of triumph ; the 
very rich being required to pay the same 
debt of nature as the poor. 

Outside, the autumn sunshine sparkled 
on the fading foliage and the surface of 
the little brook, dimpling into shadow be- 
neath the foot-bridge. On the horizon line 
of blue sea a sail appeared, shining and 
white in the noonday, then vanished. The 
sail was not noticed by Herringville. The 
birds twittered as they alighted on the 
branches of Nehemiah Methley’s own ma- 
ple-trees, joyous and absorbed in their own 
tiny affairs. Occasionally the sharp bark- 
ing of a dog and the lowing of cattle dis- 
turbed the stillness of peaceful country, 
where man had suspended his labors, while 
nature calmly pursued her routine. 

The voice of the old minister rose and 


37 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


fell in speech and prayer. He reviewed 
the life of his deceased brother, dwelling 
on his virtues, and ignoring his defects, 
with that charity in eulogy which we shall 
all require. Undoubtedly he was pro- 
lix, but Herring ville found no fault with 
the length of his sermon, which was pro- 
nounced very improving. 

Public interest centred in the mourners 
— three persons seated against the wall, in a 
place of honor, behind the coffin. Hannah 
Stort was first, in a new suit of mourning 
a long cr§pe veil, and a pair of kid-gloves, 
her manner composed, a trifle grim. 

“ Hannah might be his widder, from her 
gown,” whispered Herringville, peeping at 
her between the white railing of the crook- 
ed staircase and around doors. 

Mrs. Bayard appeared pale, disturbed, 
crushed, still wearing her usual black silk 
dress. Her head ached, and her feet were 
cold. She could not shed tears for the man 
who had been nothing to her while living. 
She was sustained in the present ordeal by 
a novel sense of self-respect and importance. 
In her poverty and lonely widowhood she 
was not likely to appear as mourner in an- 
other household. 

The young girl Celia was also attired in 
black. She had employed long and dull 
hours in arraying herself for this ceremony. 
She had taken the keys of old Mrs. Meth- 
ley’s wardrobe from Hannah Stort’s unre- 
sisting fingers, and searched for raiment in 
which to appear at the funeral of that 
lady’s son. From these stores she had 
made herself a trailing robe of bombazine 
— her first long dress — and swathed her 
slight form in a long mantle, which, twist- 
ed about her waist, fell in heavy folds, not 
devoid of grace. A black cap, also belong- 
ing to Mrs. Methley, had been drawn over 
Celia’s golden hair and pinned at the back 
of the head. This fantastic cap had been 
half hidden by a veil, which eclipsed that 
of Hannah Stort. Girlish caprice and van- 
ity led her to glance in a mirror before 
passing to her place in the dismal parlor. 
She paused, and drew the folds of crape 
across her face before following her moth- 
er through the silent crowd. Perversity, a 
sudden shyness and nervousness at con- 
fronting so many eyes, led her to conceal 
her face. 

Herringville was astonished at the bear- 
ing of this young girl, who thus vied with 
Hannah Stort in the garb of grief. There 
she sat, a mystery in their midst, the veil 


flowing in an unbroken line from the crown 
of her head, to mingle with the sable folds 
of mantle and gown which coiled about 
her little feet. Who was she ? Herring- 
ville asked the question with every sense 
acutely alert. Why was she differently at- 
tired from her mother? She became the 
chief mourner in the estimation of all, de- 
spite Hannah Stort in her frowning com- 
posure. 

The minister’s voice rose and fell. The 
wind, sweeping through an open casement, 
stirred the hair on the forehead of Nehemi- 
ali Methley as if in a parting caress. Celia 
sighed, then shivered ; the folds of crape 
stifled her; she extended her hand to clasp 
that of her mother. Everything came un- 
real, strange, ghastly, in her surroundings. 
She asked herself if she was still the same 
person — Celia Bayard. The black robe 
clung to her feet ; the mantle, exhaling a 
sickly odor of camphor, imprisoned her 
arms ; she was falling into a dark abyss. 

The minister spoke more of the tomb 
and the judgment- day than of the glori- 
ous resurrection of the soul beyond. Final- 
ly, he pronounced these closing words : 

“ The place that knows him now shall 
know him no more forever.” 

Herringville listened, chilled and awed. 

In the succeeding silence the sound of 
wild, hysterical weeping became audible. 
Hannah Stort’s eyes were dry. The chief 
mourner, that muffled form in the corner, 
swayed in her seat, sobbing. 

“ Oh, take me away !” 

Thus the funeral of Nehemiali Methley 
was marked by a climax of demonstrative 
grief which it w r ould have otherwise lacked. 

Then the master was borne out the front- 
door, down the little path, and deposited in 
the hearse. 

Herringville emerged, gazed at the sky 
and along the road, realizing that all was 
over. The millionnaire had been gathered 
to his fathers. 

The homestead was again closed, and the 
village resumed its usual avocations. The 
disappearance of the boy John Winter be- 
came a subject of discussion. This second 
emotion was like the lapsing of the tide af- 
ter a large wave has swept in from the open 
sea. The death and funeral of Nehemiali 
Methley had been the dash of the surf, 
while the flight of John Winter was the 
ripple in the breakwater, scarcely perceived. 
The boy’s past history and probable future 
w r ere dwelt upon at Squire Nuthall’s store ; 


38 A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


but Setli Deems, still on a “ spree ” with 
the peddler, declared in lucid moments 
that his worthless apprentice might return 
or not, as he pleased. 

Mrs. Bayard and her daughter remained 
at Herringville. The mother was less pale 
and abstracted, her step was firmer. She 
was still keeping a lonely vigil with Han- 
nah Stort, waiting, watching, dreaming. 
Celia moped, and longed to escape. Mrs. 
Bayard held up a warning finger. ' 

“We can afford a new dress for you, 
dear, with the money saved by remaining 
here. Would you not like a velvet polonaise 
to wear to church next winter ?” 

Celia reflected, with her chin in her 
hand. 

“ Oh yes ! one of black velvet,” she de- 
cided. “ Only it will never look like those 
made by real dress-makers, mamma.” 

Mrs. Bayard nodded her head reassur- 
ingly. 

“ Paper patterns, with little cloth models 
attached, are sold in New York,” she re- 
plied. 

Celia laughed, and went about humming 
a song. She had never before aspired to 
owning a velvet garment. The young girl 
indulged in no reveries about the old man- 
sion, in which she was an unexpected 
guest, as the boy John Winter would have 
done in her place. It was to her simply a 
dull and tiresome house, of prosaic exteri- 
or, filled with ugly furniture, the angular 
portrait of Mrs. Methley, in a green gown, 
on one wall, and that of Mr. Methley oppo- 
site. More than once she had wished the 
rich relation had not met them in the city 
bank, if it was only to bring them to wit- 
ness his death. 

Another wave was sweeping toward lit- 
tle Herringville, destined to ingulf preced- 
ing interests. What disposition had Nehe- 
miah Methley made of his money ? Herring- 
ville chafed its hands beside the store 
stove, and pondered on this question from 
morning until night. 

“Have you heard the truth yet? Ne- 
hemiah Methley left no will,” said Miss 
Toppe, standing beside the cart, with a 
handkerchief over her head. 

“ What will be done with all his money ?” 
exclaimed the young butcher. 

“The strange woman will get it all, I 
believe,” retorted the milliner, triumphant- 
ly. “She knew it when she came down 
here. Don’t tell me that she didn’t! I 
hope your winter sausages are more sea- 


soned than last year, Samuel. They were 
not quite so good as common.” 

It became again the privilege of the 
young butcher to spread sinister rumors 
through the country concerning the “strange 
woman ” at Nehemiali Methley’s house, and 
her expectations of good-fortune in visit- 
ing Herringville. 

Ultimately Miss Toppe gained favor and 
renown, owing to the promptness and clear- 
ness of her views on this subject. 

The “ strange woman” knew nothing of 
these conjectures, shrouded in the gloom 
of the silent house, with Hannah Stort for 
guardian. The village lawyer, who .had 
transacted much business for the late Mr. 
Methley, held no will, and had never drawn 
up any document resembling such a testa- 
ment. This he affirmed with reluctance, 
aware’ that lie sadly disappointed his pub- 
lic. The keys of the dead man were then 
delivered up, and search made in his desk, 
books, and boxes, without result. Nelie- 
miah Methley had left no will, and no 
written evidence that such a pajper existed. 

With the entrance of the lawyer a new 
presence had dawned on the homestead — 
Hope ! Mrs. Bayard was aroused to a per- 
ception of her real position. She was next 
of kin ! While the search was being made 
among Nehemiah Methley’s papers she had 
passed through all those phases of deliri- 
ous joy, agonizing suspense, and intense 
suffering alone possible to the mercurial 
temperament. 

Hannah Stort had entered the room and 
said, in a low voice, 

“ There is nothing.” 

Mrs. Bayard could not restrain herself 
from snatching Celia’s golden head to her 
breast and kissing it convulsively. 

“ Oh, my darling, I could make you so 
happy !” she murmured. 

Incredulity robbed her of sleep and so- 
bered her waking dreams. In the gray 
dawn doubt lay in wait for her on the 
threshold of her chamber, ready to escort 
her, in ghostly fashion, through the vigils 
of another day. Despair smote her at 
dusk, and misgivings of the fulfilment of 
the morrow. The captain was the heir of 
the dead man, and he had not been heard 
of for many years. His ship had vanished 
into the storm-clouds of the Cape. Had 
he ever emerged ? Had he married in for- 
eign lands? Mrs. Bayard had not heard 
the story about Martha Winter, and would 
have rejected it as improper for the ear of 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

Celia. The mail-bag might bring tidings 
which would scatter the fragile structure 
she was building— -out of straws. Fresh 
claimants, a will deposited elsewhere for 
safety, bequests to public charities in event 
of the captain’s death; all these chances 
were probable, practicable, and most cruel. 
Nehemiah Methley could not have remem- 
bered Celia. There was no time for such 
projects before his end. Yet her spirit did 
not quail. Hope had entered, with plum- 
age more brilliant than the wings of the 
captain’s tropical birds. 

In her agitation and perplexity, Mrs. 
Bayard poured out her soul to old Hannah 
Stort — a sensible woman, who listened at- 
tentively to her words. Nay, did it not 
invariably result from these long conver- 
sations in the sitting-room that Hope re- 
mained instead of taking flight ? 

Two weeks elapsed. Herringville, hav- 
ing garnered its scanty harvests of autumn, 
speculated at leisure on the absorbing sub- 
ject of Nehemiah Methley’s money. Mrs. 
Bayard, flushing and paling, clasped her 
hands nervously if the knocker struck a 
blow on the door, and found ever-increas- 
ing solace in talking with the old house- 
keeper. 

The evening of the fourteenth day Mrs. 
Bayard inquired, 

“Was the captain kind to you?” 

Hannah Stort glanced at her suspiciously. 

“Yes. He was no favorite of mine, 
though,” she replied. 

“Will you continue to take charge of 
the house — if— he returns ?” 

The house-keeper uttered a short, dry 
laugh, which was a trifle unsteady. 

“ I hope I may not be turned out, who- 
ever succeeds,” she said. 

Mrs. Bayard rose to retire. Celia was al- 
ready climbing the crooked staircase, with 
a lamp in her hand. 

“I should hope not,” said the widow. 
“ It is improbable that any heir could be 
so unkind as to drive you from the home, 
in your old age, where you have worked 
many years. Certainly neither of us would 
think of such a measure,” she added, with 
a touch of new dignity in her tone. 

The reflection pleased her. The first 
wielding of her sceptre over the newly ac- 
quired kingdom was to promise Nehemiah 
Methley’s faithful servant a refuge in the 
homestead. Was this sceptre already her 
own ? Was she merely permitted to touch 
and admire it ? 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 39 

“ Do you believe the captain is dead ?” 
she demanded. 

“Yes,” said Hannah Stort, gazing stead- 
ily into the depths of the fire. 

Then Mrs. Bayard groped her way up the 
stair, guided by the little star of light which 
marked Celia’s progress. The star had be- 
come stationary in the narrow chamber con- 
taining the captain’s museum. Celia stood 
here, the lamp in her hand, and her lips 
parted as if in surprise. 

“ I saw the boy again when I entered/’ 
she exclaimed. 

“ What boy, pet ?” her mother inquired. 

“ Why, the boy — But I forget ; you did 
not see him. Perhaps he belonged to the 
undertaker. He never came again.” 

“You are tired,” said Mrs. Bayard, sooth- 
ingly. 

“How delightful!” cried Celia. “The 
little key is in one of the glass cases, mam- 
ma,” 

A key had been placed here by Hannah 
Stort, doubtless to amuse the young girl. 
How indulgent she was to Celia ! The lat- 
ter gave the lamp to her mother, opened 
the case, and began to displace the shawls, 
the mantles, the trays of porcelain, with a 
wilful and childish gayety of manner. At 
length she found a Japanese dressing-gown 
of gray and crimson silk, wadded and quilt- 
ed, which she threw over Mrs. Bayard’s 
arm. 

“ It is so deliciously soft ! I should like 
to wear such garments, mamma,” she 
laughed. 

Mrs. Bayard brushed the soft burden 
with her cheek, musingly. 

“ Leave the rest,” she admonished, gen- 
tly. 

Celia disengaged a long strip of Turkish 
embroideries and surveyed it. Suddenly 
she enveloped herself in the rich cover. 
Never was a Cinderella more completely 
transformed by a fairy godmother. The 
purple velvet was so elaborately wrought, 
by patient labor, that Celia appeared as if 
sheeted in sparkling gold from head to 
foot. 

“ Like my dream,” she said, radiantly. 

Mrs. Bayard replaced the treasures, but 
she kept the luxurious dressing - gown 
thrown over her arm. 

“It is a thousand pities to have these 
things packed away for years,” she said, 
meditatively, and went to bed. 

Hope, with rainbow - tinted wings, had 
entered the homestead of Nehemiah Meth- 


40 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

ley, and remained, not without a certain 
airy mockery of his prejudices, his strong 
human will, in life. 


CHAPTER IV. 

JOHN WINTER FINDS A NEW MASTER. 

An American bark, christened the Swal- 
low , was approaching her destination — a 
Mediterranean port. She had been beaten 
and baffled by terrific storms, and wafted 
along by fair winds. Madeira had received 
her, nearly a wreck. 

An old man of hale and upright figure, 
with rough gray hair and beard, stood near 
the bulwark, with folded arms, watching 
Gibraltar fade on the horizon. He was the 
sole cabin passenger, and had been on 
board a twelvemonth. A cabin-boy ap- 
proached him, and together they gazed at 
sea and sky, with that mighty cliff ever 
lessening to a golden cloud in the lumi- 
nous atmosphere of a summer evening. 
During the long voyage the old man and 
the boy had become friends, attracted by a 
subtle sympathy of mutual interest, as yet 
unexplained. 

The old man was a rare and brilliant 
talker. His natural power of eloquence 
might have been readily ripened into ora- 
tory. As it was, his speech, racy with pro- 
verbial sayings more apt than choice, car- 
ried the weight of irresistible conviction 
to the ear of a listener. The Anglo-Saxon 
natural orator charms his fellows to whom 
words, as a medium of expressing fine 
thoughts, are sometimes slow, constrained, 
even awkward. The cabin-boy hung spell- 
bound on the lightest word of one who had 
travelled far and seen many nations. He 
was popular with captain and crew alike, 
this cabin passenger, whose hands were 
hardened with labor ; but on none of these 
intelligences gathered about him did he 
exercise the same fascination as that 
wrought on the lank, pale cabin-boy, who 
daily served him with a curious blending 
of alacrity and fear. The old man per- 
ceived it, and smiled beneath his beard, 
then suddenly frowned. To captain and 
crew he was simply an old sculptor who 
had been home to America for the first 
time in twenty years — genial, amusing, full 
of cranks and whims, and now returning to 
Florence, the city of his adoption. For the 
rest, he did not attempt to conceal his per- 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

sonal history. He was the son of a pioneer 
backwoodsman ; had fought his own bat- 
tle in machine-shop and on canal -boats 
until he had attained his goal in Art and 
Italy. He was one of Edward Everett 
Hale’s “ Children of the Public,” with the 
world for his school. The individual pow- 
er of this presence on shipboard pervaded 
everything to the cabin-boy. He did not 
inquire whence came the old man, or where 
he was going. The gossip of the mate as 
to his origin fell unheeded on the boy’s 
ear. A sculptor ! The cabin-boy did not 
know the meaning of the name. He was 
contented to watch and to listen. At night 
the recitals of the stranger uttered on deck 
during the day became colored and inter- 
woven in his dreams, gaining a rhythm 
from the plunging of the vessel and the 
swift rush of waters past the keel. 

“ What is a sculptor ?” demanded the 
boy, suddenly, leaning against the bulwark, 
as Gibraltar faded from view. 

“A modern sculptor is a lunatic who 
strives to push his way into an august com- 
pany of gods and goddesses where he is not 
wanted,” replied the old man. 

The cabin-boy pondered gravely on this 
enigmatical response. 

“ But you are a sculptor,” he added, with 
a childish persistency. 

“ I am also a madman,” said this magi- 
cian who had bewitched the imagination 
of his young companion. 

Then he turned and studied keenly the 
lineaments of the face beside him. 

“ Tush ! boy. Do not heed my words,” 
he said, in a dry tone, and walked away. 

The cabin-boy was John Winter. 

When he had quitted Herringville liis 
first impulse was to escape by means of 
that highway, the sea. Captain Methley 
had been a sailor ; he would be one. Might 
he not eventually find this friend on the 
other side of the world ? His mother had 
forbidden his acceptance of the gold coin 
in his childhood, and yet the conviction 
lingered in his mind that she owed grati- 
tude to the captain. His resolution to fly 
once taken, he walked and ran along the 
road, aware that Seth Deems had the right 
to overtake and bear him back to the shoe- 
maker’s bench. How he had wasted the 
precious hours of day, lingering in the 
Methley homestead ! Oh, that he had start- 
ed forth earlier 1 Where was he fleeing? 
To the sea. 

Night overtaking him, he crept into A 


41 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

barn on the outskirts of a village, fifteen 
miles distant. The crisp cakes bestowed 
on him by the doctor’s pretty wife had been 
consumed en route. He went to bed, sup- 
perless, in the mounds of fragrant hay. Next 
morning hunger drove him to beg a little 
milk and bread of the farmer’s wife. The 
good woman gave the food without asking 
questions. The fugitive pressed on. His 
plan was to gain the neighboring port, and 
present himself on board some vessel about 
to sail, before Seth Deems could miss and 
track him. Soon the town appeared before 
him. He entered the streets, in constant 
dread of being seen and recognized by some 
Herringville fisherman, just as the bark 
Swallow weighed anchor. He did not de- 
mand to know her destination of any one. 
She might be a whaler, bound for the 
Frozen Sea ; she might be a trader, bound 
for the Amazon. Her course was alike in- 
different to the boy, now desperately anx- 
ious to get away. How to board the craft ? 
He was too late, by hours, to gain admission 
among the crew ; he was too late, by a day, 
to attempt hiding himself as a stowaway. 
He stood on the crowded wharf, and 
watched the movements of the bark with 
haggard eyes. He was sorely tempted to 
throw himself into the water and swim 
after her. The old man stood on the deck, 
gazing at the shore, the one inanimate fig- 
ure where all was motion and activity in 
preparing for sea. On the wharf the loung- 
ers criticised the Swallow and her sailing 
capacities; discussed her freight — bread- 
stuffs to be discharged at Liverpool, and a 
return cargo of Carrara marble from Leg- 
horn to Boston. The schooner Alice , yon- 
der, would not be ready to sail in a fort- 
night. 

John Winter escaped from the port and 
ran along the shore beyond. He saw sev- 
eral boats drawn up in a little cove. To 
push off one and jump in was the work of 
a moment. The boat rocked violently, and 
drifted away. Then he recalled the neces- 
sity of oars. He fumbled amidst the fishing- 
tackle in the bottom of the boat, and found 
one. 

In the mean while the Swallow was slowly 
working her way out of port. The old man, 
the cabin passenger, observed a small, dark 
object rising and falling far out on the open 
water. What was it ? A little boat man- 
aged by a boy. Evidently a fisherman’s 
boat, and badly handled, for it tossed about 
in a purposeless fashion in the path of the 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

advancing bark. The solitary occupant of 
the cockle-shell showed himself an advo- 
cate of the hazardous experiment of cross- 
ing a ship’s bows rather than the safer ex- 
pedient of dropping astern. 

“Ha! he will be run down!” exclaimed 
the old man, w r ith awakened interest, and 
mechanically laid his hand on the end of a 
coil of rope. 

The mate shouted a warning word. Too 
late ! The boy in the boat cast one terri- 
fied glance at the bark looming directly 
above him, plied the single oar he held 
with frantic energy, in the instinct of self- 
preservation, then there was a slight shock, 
a snap, a gurgling sound, and the boat had 
vanished. 

The old man, dragging the rope, ran to 
the other side of the deck. Lo! the boy 
rose to the surface, gasping for breath, 
clutched the rope, and was drawn on 
board dripping and wretched. 

The captain eyed him suspiciously. 

“You shall be put ashore at New York 
and sent back to your home, my lad,” he 
said. 

John Winter, with the water streaming 
from his hair and his teeth chattering with 
cold, replied, 

“I have no home. I want to be a sailor. 
He was one.” 

“ Who ?” demanded the captain, sharply. 

“ Captain Methley, sir.” 

The Swallow paused at New York, but 
the boy was not put on shore, as had been 
threatened. Possibly his story had the 
genuine ring of truth in it. which convinced 
the captain that he was alone in the world, 
and intended following the sea sooner or 
later. The allusion to Captain Methley, a 
former comrade, may have possessed a de- 
gree of influence. The cabin passenger, 
with that instinctive sympathy for all creat- 
ures longing for freedom peculiar to such 
natures, had warmly advocated the cause 
of John Winter. Thus New York was 
reached and passed, the boy remained on 
board, and his former path of duty was 
deserted. 

The new life did not discourage him. 
He had cherished no boyish illusions about 
becoming a sailor, fed by thrilling narra* 
tives. He was too much accustomed to 
rough words and hard blows to rebel at 
those administered on shipboard. The sail- 
ors’ jokes, however salt, did not shock a na- 
tive of Herringville. The other boys soon 
ceased to bully him — a comrade who neither 


42 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


observed their intention to tyrannize over 
his inexperience nor resented their chaff. 

John Winter loved the ocean. It became 
to him a boundless highway, whether flush- 
ed with the rosy hues of sunrise, silvered 
by the summer moon, or blackened by the 
storm to an aspect of awful mystery. He 
was to be a sailor, and his own life stretch- 
ed before him in these tossing surges of 
the sea. 

The next day, after Gibraltar had faded, 
the old sculptor avoided the cabin-boy. 
The latter approached him timidly. 

“Will you lend me a pencil?” he asked. 

The sculptor found one in the deep 
pocket of his rough coat, and gave it in 
silence. In turn, the cabin-boy avoided 
him for several days. One afternoon he 
noticed John Winter seated aft, on his knee 
a board over which he had smoothly stretch- 
ed a sheet of brown paper. The boy’s atti- 
tude betrayed an absorbed interest in his 
task. Several sailors w T ere looking over 
his shoulder, while the mate, pacing the 
deck, paused from time to time, with a grim 
smile, as if impelled by curiosity to note 
the progress of some child’s-play. The old 
sculptor approached. 

John Winter was sketching his portrait. 
The large head, the shaggy eyebrows, the 
sweeping lines of hair and beard which im- 
parted so much dignity to the original, 
were all faithfully reproduced on the sheet 
of brown paper. 

“ What do ye think of it ?” chuckled the 
mate. 

“ It might be worse,” said the cabin pas- 
senger, slowly. 

John Winter blushed up to his ears. 
Then the old sculptor learned, for the first 
time, that the cabin-bqy invariably employ- 
ed his leisure moments in this way. He 
drew the ships, the sea-birds, the faces of 
the crew, the dog and the cat, on the mar- 
gins of newspapers, the back of envelopes, 
and scraps of waste -paper. He had thus 
exhausted the limited store of pencils in 
the forecastle, and dared not demand a 
fresh supply from his superiors. Hence his 
shy appeal to the old sculptor. Curiosity 
kindled in all eyes when the latter inspect- 
ed these crude studies. Jim, the mulatto 
cook, grinned, as if to accurately reflect the 
smiling visage of his own portrait. Jerry, 
the old tar, was requested to turn his head 
in profile and permit this critic to judge if 
he resembled a likeness of himself, drawn 
on the cover of a pasteboard box stowed 


away in his locker, as a gift for his wife on 
his return home. 

During this ordeal the young artist fixed 
great eyes on the sculptor, who said, 

“ They are the work of a child.” 

If any merit in these fragments surprised 
him, he did not betray it. 

Jerry received his box -cover jealously, 
and was- disposed to resent such cold 
praise. 

“Could the lad get his livin’ making 
likenesses, d’ye think, sir ?” he inquired. 

“No,” was the dry response. “Don’t 
put such foolish notions in his head.” 

Jerry walked away to his bunk, mutter- 
ing that some folks thought nobody could 
do anything but themselves. This shrewd 
sailor sarcasm was not a random arrow in 
the present case. 

The Swallow reached Leghorn. The old 
sculptor bade his companions of the long 
voyage farewell with warmth. “If you 
have time, run up to Florence,” he said, 
shaking hands with the captain. “You 
will find it the most beautiful city in the 
world.” 

“ Thanks !” the captain answered, his 
glance straying anxiously to the quay, 
where the crowd so characteristic of a 
Mediterranean seaport gesticulated, shout- 
ed, and wrangled. 

John Winter stood near the companion- 
way; the cabin passenger paused, patted 
him on the shoulder kindly, and gave him 
an English shilling. 

“ Be a good sailor rather than a poor 
artist, and do not allow those portraits to 
turn your brain.” 

With this admonition, which people al- 
ready secure in a chosen vocation are so 
ready to give to a timid beginner who 
would fain follow in their footsteps, he de- 
parted. 

Later, John Winter went ashore and 
wandered about the town. Livorno pre- 
sented to his eye neither the beauty of 
Genoa nor the peculiar and picturesque as- 
pect of Marseilles. The high, mean houses, 
at once dilapidated and of modern aspect, 
did not attract him. In the thoroughfares 
and squares throngs of slatternly women 
went and came, handkerchiefs knotted over 
their frizzled hair, long dresses sweeping 
the pavement, and slipshod slippers on 
their feet. Swarthy vendors of fruit and 
ware shouted lustily at street corners; 
groups of mariners of all nationalities lined 
the bridges, occasionally divided by a file 


48 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


of carabinieri, in black uniform and cock- 
ed liats, marching with their muskets on 
their shoulders. 

John Winter returned to the bark. That 
night he did not sleep. Next morning he 
arose with a startling reality confronting 
him even more vividly than on the pre- 
vious day. The old sculptor had gone. 
Where had he gone ? Who was he ? 

At noon the cabin-boy had the courage 
to make his way, in a foreign city, to the 
railway. He surveyed the Leghorn depot 
with an interest which that commonplace 
structure in no wise merited for intrinsic 
attraction. He peered eagerly through the 
iron gates which barred the public from 
the shining rails beyond, and appeared to 
read all the placards on the walls. 

The following day he presented himself 
before the captain and demanded his dis- 
charge and such wages as might be due 
him. The captain assented, mindful of the 
desirability of exchanging the crew en- 
rolled in an American port for the foreign 
sailors who w T ill take less pay. A cabin- 
boy w T as not missed on the Swallow. 

Three hours later John Winter reached 
Florence. His first thought was one of 
ardent interest to behold this city, which 
the old sculptor had pronounced the most 
beautiful in the world. His second aim 
was to find the companion of many months 
on shipboard, and beg to be allowed to 
serve him, to abide with him. In his igno- 
rance of the world the boy had profound 
faith in the guidance of this old man. Be- 
yond this he did not look. The bark 
Swallow had borne him away from Seth 
Deems and Hannah Stort. Now the land 
again claimed him with subtle attraction. 
The smell of tar and ropes, the atmosphere 
of a ship’s hold, and the mingled odors of 
crowded quays, seemed to follow and sick- 
en him with an unconquerable repugnance. 

John Winter w T andered out of the depot, 
gazing about him. The mother of Thomas 
a Becket was not more completely lost in 
the streets of London. A group of eager 
porters assailed him with the demand to 
carry his luggage. He had none. Oppo- 
site was the rear of the Church of Santa 
Maria Novella. Several dark and crooked 
streets led in the direction of the river- 
bank. The day was a fete — that of All 
Souls. The stranger followed the line of 
carriages, the men and women on foot, as 
they trooped to an overshadowing height. 

Death confronted the boy here as it had in 


quitting his distant home. How strangely 
different its aspect! The Church of San 
Miniato rose before him, with its gilded 
mosaics glittering in the sunshine, and sur- 
rounded by its mournful emblem, the cy- 
press-tree. Here the crowd surged up the 
marble steps, chatting and laughing; sol- 
diers in the ugly Italian uniform of the 
ranks, like a cumbersome gray dressing- 
gown, tightly belted ; children and women 
with bare heads, their hair piled high in 
puffs and braids. 

John Winter found himself in a ceme- 
tery, where tombs, arranged in terraces 
about the church, were decorated with 
wreaths of immortelles, and candles which 
flared in the day with a tawdry effect. 
Then the heavy curtain of the church rose 
and fell behind him, and for the first time 
in his life he stood in an ancient temple 
decked for the festa of the Tutti-Morti, an 
anniversary in the calendar of the Romish 
Church unknown to him. The pavement 
was strewn with flowers, placed above the 
funeral slabs of low-lying heads, where 
innumerable tapers flickered, shedding 
their light on the steps leading up to the 
choir, illuminating the mysterious depths 
of crypt, the marble incrustations of pulpit 
and apse, and resting on the mosaic of San 
Miniato before his Saviour, wrought with 
patient skill in 1297. Here the miraculous 
crucifix bowed the head to the magnani- 
mous Gualberto, when he forgave instead 
of slaying his enemy, according to the le- 
gend. Here Florence still brings her au- 
gust dead. 

John Winter stood silent, almost incred- 
ulous, and imbibed the beauty of this inte- 
rior. 

An hour later our wanderer had seated 
himself near the parapet of the adjacent 
Piazza Michael Angelo. His delight in 
the scene outspread before him approach- 
ed delirium. Yes, the old sculptor’s chosen 
home was beautiful. Autumn brooded 
over the land with the rich coloring of 
the waning year. The foliage was sered 
by summer drought; white dust choked 
the highways where little country carts 
passed, piled with pyramids of wicker 
flasks, or wine-casks, from the harvest of 
vineyard and olive -grove. The sky, of a 
tender azure, melted to opal tints on the 
horizon line of mountains, their flanks and 
hollows filled with purple shadows. The 
boy might readily discern a distant slope, 
which was Yallambrosa, in the infolding 


44 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

Apennines ; opposite, Fiesole, veiled in vi- 
olet mist, crowned her crag; the Arno, 
parched to a rivulet, must wend some time 
down to Pisa and the sea. 

Behind him the statue of David received 
golden lights on the bronze shoulders, em- 
blematic of youthful strength, caught from 
the dazzling atmosphere. Below was the 
city, her palaces, churches, and arching 
bridges in richest harmony of tints, fair and 
noble after many a storm. The mist of 
autumn sunshine, which softened all imper- 
fections, rested on roof and wall, the towers 
of the Palazzo Vecchio and the Bargello, 
the domes of San Lorenzo and the Cathe- 
dral, while a shaft of glistening marbles 
marked the site of Giotto’s Campanile. 

This enchanting picture was outspread 
before John Winter. It seemed to him 
that the city must adopt him in his very 
necessity for such a benignant mother. 
There it lay, a cradle of the arts — a school, 
had the boy but known it, with tower, and 
dome, and open loggia, enveloped in the 
warm atmosphere which nature imparts 
to Italy in November, like a veil of silver 
gauze or the bloom on fruit. 

Sudden tears clouded John Winter’s eyes, 
he was so utterly alone and forsaken, with 
no one to share his rapture. If his mother, 
that shadowy being, cramped by the meagre 
life of the little red house at home, could 
see it all ! 

“ Perhaps heaven is like this to her,” he 
reflected, with a slight quiver of the lip. 

From this moment he was able to think 
of the dead mother, without a previous bit- 
ter if indefinable regret, as having gained 
more in dying than was his own need of 
her living. The aspect of the Church of 
San Miniato, surrounded by its cypress-trees, 
and tombs decked with flowers and tapers, 
may have contributed to the change. He 
also remembered the young girl at the 
Methley homestead. What if she were 
here ? 

Never was more glorious field for youth- 
ful musings ; its very loveliness braced the 
nerves to action. He had reached a haven, 
and the very land of promise expanded be- 
fore him. He felt that he could conquer 
worlds seated on the flight of steps eating 
fruit. He had bought the first luscious figs 
and a cluster of grapes of a vendor. The 
figs were purple, melting to crimson hearts ; 
the grapes resembled globes of liquid sun- 
shine, musky and fragrant with the scent of 
blossoms. The feast had been ripened for 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

him in the fiery Tuscan summer. He re- 
ceived more than mere bodily refreshment 
in consuming both ; a new current of life 
thrilled through his veins. 

At length he threw aside the vine-leaf 
which had served him as a platter for an 
Arcadian feast, and again descended to the 
town. The old sculptor must be found be- 
fore night. How ? He did not know. He 
crossed the Ponte alle Grazie, and moved 
along the Lung’ Arno toward the Ponte 
Yecchio. Leonardo da Yinci, Michael An- 
gelo, and crafty Benvenuto Cellini once 
trod these thoroughfares. He did not 
know their names. Each nook between 
high walls, where the lamp of a shrine still 
burned, had its own history. John Winter 
had never opened the volume of the Floren- 
tine Commonwealth. The colonnade of the 
Uffizi extended on the right, terminating, 
in perspective, with the massive wall of 
the Palazzo Yecchio, and its tower rising 
far above the town. In this museum the 
Uffizi, the Yenus de Medici, the Niobe, the 
Apollino, each awaited him; but he passed 
on, ignorant of their very creation. Under 
the portico he paused in astonishment. 
Donatello and Niccolo Pisano looked down 
on him calmly, a certain intelligence on 
their marble faces. Surely they were kin- 
dred of the snow-woman of his dream ! 

Beyond, the Piazza della Signoria was 
traversed by a flood of western sunshine, 
which left the equestrian statue of Cosi- 
mo I. in shadow, while bathing the whole 
Palazzo Yecchio in rosy flames, from the 
stately door, guarded by lions, to the feudal 
battlements, where the shields of the An- 
cient Republic blazed in vivid colors— red, 
blue, and gold. 

John Winter, stupefied and overwhelmed 
by such unfamiliar objects, crossed to the 
Loggia di Lanzi, but dared not enter. Be- 
hold the sisters of the snow -woman peo- 
pling this place, and ranged on pedestals 
along the wall ! A ragged beggar was 
asleep on one of the benches of this open 
porch, his slumbers guarded by Greek Ves- 
tals, the bronze Perseus, the dying Ajax. 
Ancient and modern art had combined to 
render the dreams of this mendicant noble 
and heroic. 

John Winter moved on mechanically; he 
stumbled with fatigue. The sign of an 
English chemist attracted him. He enter- 
ed and demanded the address of the old 
sculptor. The chemist found it for him 
I readily. 


45 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

In the twilight he reached a low door, 
knocked, and was admitted by a workman 
in blouse and white cap. The old sculptor 
sat in an adjoining room, holding his head 
between his hands, in an attitude of pro- 
found dejection. On the walls were ranged 
plaster busts and sketches ; a debris of bro- 
ken fragments surrounded him. In the 
centre of the room was a statuette, also in 
plaster, in a mutilated condition. The 
hands of this female form were still ex- 
tended, holding a garland of flowers, but 
the head had rolled on the floor. It was 
characteristic of the old sculptor that he 
had just struck his w r ork a violent blow 
and shattered the head. 

“ Nothing succeeds and nothing is per- 
fect,” he groaned. Then he lifted his eyes 
and observed John Winter standing on the 
threshold. He looked at the cabin-boy 
steadily, and without changing his attitude. 

“Well?” he inquired at length, as his 
visitor remained silent. 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

“I have left the ship,” said John, in a 
tone of feverish animation. “ I have fol- 
lowed you. I will work. Oh, don’t send 
me away !” 

“ Yes, you will work, and to what end ?” 
said the old sculptor, stroking his beard.” 
However, you are here. Remain.” 

He shared his frugal supper with John. 
Before the meal was finished the boy’s eye- 
lids and head drooped, and he began to 
murmur incoherent sentences in delirium. 
The old sculptor placed him on his own bed. 

During the night this unexpected guest 
raved about a snow- woman, the statue of 
David, with golden sunshine bathing the 
bronze shoulders, the city, and a church 
where lights and flowers were placed above 
the dead. 

“ My own youth over again,” soliloquized 
the watcher. “ He has taken the fever bad- 
ly enough. At least he possesses a soul, 
and of that the human monkey cannot al- 
ways boast.” 


BOOK II. 

A LEAF OF CONTINENTAL SOCIETY. 


CHAPTER I. 

MRS. GENERAL JEFFERSON. 

Mrs. Jefferson received a letter by the 
morning post. The contents interested 
her. She read: 

“ My dear Friend, — You ask me to give 
you the latest news from Paris and Lon- 
don. I hasten to comply with the request. 
Of course I keep myself au courant with 
everything — one meets so many people in 
a Paris “pension and elsewhere. Well, I 
have made inquiries respecting the rich or 
celebrated Americans abroad this season, 
and who of the number are likely to visit 
Florence. Never were fewer of our people 
coming to Europe, my dear. Hard times 
keep them at home. I am sure I dread to 
receive a letter with the familiar postmark, 
New York, for fear of its containing tidings 
of a further shrinkage of my own property.” 

“ I was not aware that she possessed any 
property,” interpolated Mrs. Jefferson at 
this stage of the letter. 

Then she placed her feet on the fender, 


and assumed a more comfortable attitude 
in her arm-chair before resuming the peru- 
sal of the thin sheets, crossed by the writ- 
ing of a large, straggling hand, with an 
aspect of truly luxurious enjoyment. 

The letter furnished an altogether de- 
lightful budget of gossip for a dull morn- 
ing. It was carelessly written by an inti- 
mate friend, seasoned with a little scandal, 
a few personal items of interest concerning 
the great world of fashion, in which the 
lady did not mingle; even touched on 
grave political questions in a flighty, femi- 
nine manner, and dealt eloquently with the 
bargains of the Bon Marche , and the Prin- 
temps, or the elegant novelties of the Maga- 
sins du Louvre , and the ancienne maison 
Clirevreux-Aubertpt. Mrs. Jefferson paused 
at a paragraph of even greater interest: 

“I have found something for you, my 
dear. Two parties are coming to Florence, 
and young Black will give them letters of 
introduction to you. Both are ladies trav- 
elling with their families. Observe ! You 
can be polite to each party, of course, but 
Mrs. Hartwell is very rich, they say, and will 


46 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

probably spend the winter at Florence. No 
doubt she will make a splurge, and go in for 
entertaining the nobility, if possible. You 
will wish to know this in advance ! The oth- 
er, Mrs. Bayard, is not of much account to 
you — a traveller with a modest letter of 
credit. Tell me something about yourself; 
it is an age since I heard from you. Do 
you still have your neuralgic headaches? 
Is the story true which is going the round 
of the newspapers, that a Florentine noble 
has been poisoned in his soup by a young 
wife ? Horrible ! 

“ Ever affectionately yours, 

“Letitia Harde.” 

Mrs. Jefferson folded the letter, restored 
it to its envelope, pursed up her lips, and 
nodded her head energetically at the fire. 
To understand its significance, this lady’s 
character and ambitions must be duly con- 
sidered. 

Five years previously Mrs. Jefferson had 
come to Florence and taken up her abode. 
Five years make of a stranger an old resi- 
dent in a Continental city. She was free 
to choose between wrapping herself in that 
seclusion which renders a foreigner a mys- 
tery in an Italian town, a course of action 
which never surprises the inhabitants, or 
to mingle with her fellows. She chose the 
latter course, and pursued it with a feverish 
energy. At a glance only one field was 
open to her. A large income, properly 
heralded by rumor in advance, would alone 
attract the attention of Italian society to 
herself, and the fortune of Mrs. Jefferson 
was limited. She was free, therefore, to 
establish herself as a member of the Anglo- 
American colony, and to shake her head 
over the flagrant sins of the nobility other- 
wise unknown to her. 

“What a degenerate race!” she sighed, 
sipping a cup of afternoon tea. “What 
frivolity and dissipation ! and they are 
frightful gamblers besides. I only wish 
that all the English and American girls 
who are captivated witli their fine eyes 
and soft flatteries realized that they care 
nothing for. us except for what they can 
make out of us. They are on the lookout 
for a dot or a good buffet alike.” 

Mrs. Jefferson was very strong on this 
point of despising the race among whom 
she lived. In these five years she had es- 
tablished herself. She had registered her 
name at the bankers ; she attached herself 
to one of the churches; she pushed her 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

way everywhere with a composure border- 
ing on effrontery, and boasted of her fam- 
ily connections at home in America with 
an arrogance akin to defiance. Her world 
smiled, exchanged significant glances, sneer- 
ed a little at her pretensions, and ended by 
accepting her. Indeed, everything was in 
the lady’s favor for such adoption. She 
possessed neither beauty, youth, nor superior 
wealth, to excite the envy of her neighbors. 
On the other hand, she occupied a small 
apartment in a new quarter of the city, 
lived comfortably, and drove about in a 
pretty coupS. Here one found a charm- 
ingly dainty breakfast or little supper, with 
a well -chosen number of guests, and fre- 
quent kettledrums of an afternoon. Who 
was Mrs. Jefferson? Where did she be- 
long ? Nobody knew with certainty. Her 
first stand had been confirmed by subse- 
quent developments. She had announced 
herself to be the widow of a general in the 
American army, a hero of the Mexican war 
who had later retired in ill-health. The 
State or city which had been her birth- 
place was never definitely settled. One 
person was confident that she was born in 
Boston ; another, in New York ; still a third 
had it on the very best authority — her own 
— that Mrs. Jefferson w T as a native of the 
West; while a fourth was equally sure she 
came from the South. 

However vague the rumors on this point, 
she was of very high connection in her na- 
tive land. It was impossible to mention a 
leading family with which Mrs. Jefferson 
was not connected, and with whose history 
she was not familiar, from the distinguish- 
ed Puritans of New England, her cousins, 
to the Dutch aristocracy of Manhattan, her 
kinsmen by marriage ; the Quaker respect- 
ability of Philadelphia, her husband’s rela- 
tives, and the Virginian signer of the Dec- 
laration of Independence, her great-uncle. 
It even came to be understood that she pos- 
sessed historical relics of President Jeffer- 
son, which had descended to her. The 
Foreign Colony said that it did not believe 
a word of all this, but it was a little over- 
awed notwithstanding. 

Thus Mrs. Jefferson “ got on ” to her own 
satisfaction. The first year of her resi- 
dence was marked by the arrival of trav- 
ellers bringing letters of introduction to 
herself; certain discreet little paragraphs 
among the personal intelligence of journals 
alluded to Mrs. General Jefferson as having 
entertained this distinguished author, or 


47 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

the wife of that millionnaire, abroad to re- 
cruit her health. The lady smiled, and 
added a silken thread to the cable binding 
her to this haven, selected, as she confessed 
with charming frankness, because she could 
not afford to live at home in the same style 
as her friends, and also because of the 
dreadful American climate, which affected 
her really delicate lungs. During the sec- 
ond year it was discovered that Mrs. Jeffer- 
son knew the latest news, and had a very 
amusing and cutting way of imparting such 
items. Indeed, she furnished the sauce 
piquante of those receptions where the al- 
most entire absence of the sterner sex ren- 
ders the friction of a too exclusive feminine 
association a trifle acrid. She came to be 
feared, where she was disliked, with that 
instinctive and cowardly swerving aside 
of the public from one endowed with a 
tongue sharp, recriminating, and capable 
of being coarse. Certainly Mrs. Jefferson 
was a gossip. This was a unanimous 
opinion, and she said some reprehensible 
things ; but then, who does not gossip in 
this wicked w T orld ? If the restless envy, 
the spark of jealousy ever ready to flame 
in this woman’s breast, the lively malice 
of her curiosity in others, led her to stain 
fair fame and innocent lives because more 
fortunate than her own, as certain sea-mon- 
sters cloud the waters about themselves, 
the failing did not lessen her popularity 
or close a door in her face. Nay, did 
not these qualifications gain her a wider 
range of intercourse ? Did not the timid 
open the door against which, closed, she 
might hurl some astounding falsehood ? 
Were the envious shocked at the vigor- 
ous framing of their own thoughts by 
one bolder and more clever than them- 
selves ? 

Having gained a footing in society, the 
indomitable spirit of this new colonist led 
her into other channels. She became a 
devoted student of pictures, a connoisseur 
of objets d'Art , sought galleries and muse- 
ums in the zealous desire to improve her 
taste, and spent much of her time in those 
rare old shops of bric-a-brac which consti- 
tute one of the charms of Florence. Her 
calumniators were not slow to hint that a 
keen talent for business led her to claim a 
commission from all artists and shopkeepers 
to whom she brought the stranger within 
her gate. However true or false this report 
might be, fate reserved for Mrs. Jefferson 
another and wholly unexpected triumph. 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

One day the lady emerged from a narrow 
door on the Via Maggio, and a gentleman 
paused for her to pass, with a courteous in- 
clination of the head. This gentleman w T as 
the Count Carmine Guigione. He entered 
the narrow door after Mrs. Jefferson had 
driven away in her coupg, and found the 
proprietor rearranging an exquisite set of 
old Ginori porcelain. The porcelain was 
not unfamiliar to the Count Carmine Gui- 
gione ; he had brought it here to be sold, 
with that discretion for which he was noted, 
in the interest of his friend the Marchesa 
Borella. 

“The Signora Americana has bought it,” 
said the shopkeeper, deftly flecking the dust 
from a cup. 

“Ah! for herself?” inquired the count, 
holding a glass to his eye in a bird- like 
fashion. 

“No, for a friend,” replied the shop- 
keeper. 

Then they glanced at each other and 
laughed, the gentleman in no wise resent- 
ful of the familiarity of the tradesman. 
The count’s small eyes, bright like those of 
a mouse, twinkled ; he passed one plump, 
well-kejff hand over his face, which resem- 
bled yellow parchment, and stood lost in 
meditation. The shopkeeper, pudgy in 
form and with a large red nose, pushed 
back his hat, and ejaculated, 

“ Che, che ! These forestieri !” An ex- 
clamation which seemed to require no ex- 
planation to the count, who smiled gently 
and went away. 

Mrs. Jefferson was soon after informed 
that the Count Carmine Guigione desired 
the honor of making her acquaintance. 
She was flattered, received the member of 
a degenerate nobility with effusive polite- 
ness, and did not conceal the fact that a 
scion of one of the oldest Tuscan families 
had made overtures to herself, a simple re- 
publican. 

This lady, while using many French 
phrases in her daily conversation, affected 
to be as English as possible in other re- 
spects. She never appeared at equal ad- 
vantage as when mimicking the quaint rus- 
ticity of some country tourist characterized 
by herself as a Yankee, or inveighed vigor- 
ously against the stupid ostentation of a 
“ shoddy ” parvenu , quite ignorant of Eu- 
ropean manners and customs. It was only 
when she felt herself affronted by the ridi- 
cule of a foreigner that she took refuge in 
her own nationality, and declared loudly 


48 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE ; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


what an American would or would not en- 
dure. The routine of these five years, so 
replete with busy schemes, conflicts, pique, 
and success to herself, and so insignificant 
to an impartial observer, had brought her 
to this dull morning, and the letter from her 
friend in Paris to whom she owed many of 
her victories. 

Mrs. Jefferson rose and went to the win- 
dow to inspect the weather. She was a 
stout, middle-aged woman, with a large, fat 
face, irregular features, and small black eyes, 
which twinkled maliciously when she spoke. 
She was dressed invariably in black, with 
much jet about her throat and bust. On 
rare occasions diamonds sparkled in her 
ears, and a white rose was placed in her 
smooth black hair. Her physiognomy was 
that of a good-humored matron, which the 
tones of a singularly metallic voice and the 
twinkle of the little sparkling eyes belied. 

Ignorant of what the day had in store 
for her, Mrs. Jefferson partook of her one- 
o’clock breakfast, and at two drove out. 
As it happened to be a day when no calls 
or reception claimed her attendance, the 
lady was obliged to content herself with 
pausing at the shop of a favorite milliner 
on the Via Cererani, then spent an hour at 
the “ Ville de Lyon,” where she distracted 
attentive clerks by examining the contents 
of a whole counter, and bought nothing. 
Afterward she visited the Caf6 Doney, on 
the Via Tornabuoni, to order sundry deli- 
cate dishes for the dinner-party she intend- 
ed to give on the following day. She had 
tracked, and hunted down an amiable bish- 
op now stopping at one of the hotels, and 
4 extorted from him a promise to dine with 
her by insisting on his selecting his own 
day. Soon all Florence w T ould be aware 
that Mrs. General Jefferson had entertained 
a bishop at dinner. The lively imagina- 
tion of the lady carried her still farther: 
w T hen the bishop had journeyed on to 
Rome and Naples, she would be at liberty 
to build up any fair structure of previous 
acquaintance, even of intimacy with a dis- 
tinguished clergyman at home in America, 
at her own pleasure. One thing she prom- 
ised herself, however — the banquet should be 
choice, at any cost, and as her own menage 
was modest, she relied on the great caterer, 
Doney, to assist her in smoothing away all 
difficulties. 

Rain was falling on the city of the Arno — 
steady, persistent winter rain — which con- 
verted the river into a tawny flood, while 


the clouds hung low over the hills. A 
stranger might be pardoned ennui and a 
sense of profound disappointment in sur- 
veying the dripping, discolored buildings 
fringing the stream, the melancholy modern 
squares and boulevards, the chill and dark 
old streets — a scene wholly robbed of the 
warmth and color which had enchanted 
the cabin-boy John Winter five years be- 
fore, on a certain noonday of autumn. In 
the rain Florence reveals herself naked and 
dishevelled — an old city, wrinkled, decrepit, 
and scarred by the tempests which levelled 
her watch-towers, and despoiled her pal- 
aces in the fine old days when every man’s 
hand was against his neighbor, and the 
public clamor, whether Guelph or Ghibel- 
line, was for a foreign prince to come and 
rule over them who might prove more cru- 
el and tyrannical than themselves. 

Mrs. Jefferson returned home at five 
o’clock. In her absence, the two ladies 
mentioned by her Paris correspondent as 
bringing letters to herself had called. Yes, 
her friend had not warned her a moment 
too soon of their arrival. 

“ I will send Letitia some lace as a Christ- 
mas present, made by the Lambertini girl. 
I can call it real Venetian point. She de- 
serves it,” mused Mrs. Jefferson, very well 
satisfied with the promptness of her ally. 

The two parties now claiming her atten- 
tion happened to be staying at the same 
hotel. What more natural than to utilize 
the occasion of the bishop’s dinner to pay 
them a little attention ? Mrs. Jefferson de- 
cided that she could very well add two 
more guests to her table, and invite the 
others to spend the evening afterward, if 
only to behold that she numbered a bishop 
among her guests. How puzzled would 
she have been to decide between them but 
for that paragraph in her Paris letter : 

“ Mrs. Hartwell is very rich, they say, and 
will probably spend the winter at Florence. 
No doubt she wfill make a splurge, and go 
in for entertaining the nobility, if possible. 
The other, Mrs. Bayard, is not of much ac- 
count to you — a traveller with a modest let- 
ter of credit.” 

Thus had written the oracle of a Paris 
'pennon. 

Acting on the light of intelligence thus 
received, Mrs. Jefferson, at noon of the next 
day, called at the hotel and left her invita- 
tions, as the objects of her search happen- 
ed to be out in turn. 

At seven o’clock Mrs. Jefferson's pretty 


49 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

little dining-room presented a charming i 
aspect of welcome fot the expected guests. 
Clusters of wax -tapers shed a soft light 
over the standards of fruit and flowers, the 
silver, and spotless damask all framed in 
the warm red tints of the walls, and Pom- 
peian decorations of cornice and ceiling. 
The hostess, with beating heart and an un- 
usual flush of color on her cheeks, scanned 
every detail of the table, and consulted the 
gilt clock on the chimney-piece with an 
anxious eye. ^W*hat if the dinner proved a 
failure ? She had never before made an 
equally ambitious attempt at entertainment 
in her small establishment. Suppers and 
breakfasts were altogether different affairs. 

On the stroke of seven appeared the 
Count Carmine Guigione. He was follow- 
ed by a tall, gaunt lady, attired in brown 
silk with a linen collar, accompanied by 
a pale young girl. These strangers were 
Mrs. Hartwell and her daughter. Both 
were - weary after a day spent in the gal- 
leries ; the precise nature of the invitation 
had not been made clear to their minds, 
and embarrassment rendered them ill at 
ease. > 

The clock marked ten minutes past sev- 
en. Mrs. Jefferson, the patch of color on 
her cheek deepening to purple, listened ab- 
stractedly to the conversation of the Count 
Guigione, her thoughts astray on burnt 
soup, overdone fish, and scorched vegeta- 
bles. Oh, the agony of those moments of 
suspense ! When would the principal guest 
appear ? What could have happened to 
detain him ? Already the clock marked a 
quarter past the hour. The count, speak- 
ing English fluently, with the innate clever- 
ness of an Italian in acquiring a foreign 
tongue, if desirous of so doing, had succeed- 
ed in making the pale young girl smile. 
Giuseppe, attired in immaculate black, with 
his bushy hair carefully arranged in curls, 
hovered about the door of the salon, seek- 
ing some telegraphic intelligence in the 
eye of his mistress as to the state of affairs. 
Occasionally old Assunta, deposed from sov- 
ereign supremacy in her kitchen, and wear- 
ing a freshly-crimped cap, was to be seen 
in mysterious consultation with Giuseppe 
in the vestibule. 

At length two carriages paused, and the 
bishop, with his party, to the number of 
seven, was deposited at Mrs. Jefferson’s 
door. One of the cockers , receiving direc- 
tions from the hotel porter, had driven to 
the w T rong street and number; hence the 
4 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

delay which the hostess felt to be disas- 
trous to her dinner. A woman of hasty 
temper, Mrs. Jefferson was obliged to exer- 
cise self-control not to announce, in lieu of 
smiling greeting, 

“ The fish is spoiled !” 

The bishop, worthy man, had also em- 
ployed the day in sight-seeing, and would 
fain have selected an arm-chair and repose 
for the evening, which the lion - hunting 
propensities of Mrs. Jefferson denied him. 

Thanks to his genial presence, and the 
tact and grace of the old Count Guigione, 
the dinner passed off very well. For the 
hostess alone was reserved that cushion of 
thorns — suspense, and anxiety of inward per- 
turbation at the advent of each course. She 
alone perceived that Giuseppe’s sleeve was 
dripping with gravy from a violent colli- 
sion with the caterer’s man — Giuseppe, usu- 
ally so adroit and deft! With the salad 
her anxious brow cleared a little. The 
worst of the ordeal of a delayed dinner 
must be over. She never once asked her- 
self the question if, in entertaining these 
strangers, who received reluctantly the at- 
tention, the play was worth the candle. 
On this point she was convinced — the bish- 
op would prove her trump card for the 
opening winter. 

The other ladies did not render her much 
assistance. The bishop’s wife had a head- 
ache, and played with her fork. Mrs. 
Hartwell replied seriously, in monosyllables, 
to the happiest remarks of the bishop, 
whose mellow voice pervaded all speech. 
Miss Hartwell started and blushed if ad- 
dressed. Mrs. Jefferson remembered, long 
afterward, that both mother and daughter 
had evinced eager interest when one of the 
bishop’s party mentioned a tour of Cook’s 
which would leave Naples a month later, 
embracing the Nile and the Holy Land. 

At nine o’clock old Assunta appeared at 
the door, spoke to the caterer’s man, and 
vanished. The dinner progressed toward 
its close. Two courses later, old Assunta 
appeared again on the threshold with more 
energetic gestures. This time Giuseppe 
approached his mistress and whispered in 
her ear : 

“ Some people have arrived for the even- 
ing, signora.” 

“ Very well ; I will come directly,” replied 
the hostess, tranquilly. “ Say that I am 
still at dinner.” 

The bishop waxed more genial and hu- 
morous with the dessert, possibly because 


50 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


he felt that the burden of conversation had 
fallen on his own broad shoulders. He 
sipped his coffee slowly, he toyed with the 
fruit on his plate. In a word, he was a 
charming companion, and delighted his 
hearers by his shrewd yet kindly discus- 
sions on humanity. One cannot hurry a 
bishop over his dessert, and especially 
when his mood crowns the occasion with 
success. Mrs. Jefferson felt deep gratitude 
in her heart. 

Once or twice the thought of those even- 
ing guests waiting in the salon crossed her 
distracted brain, but vanished again. It 
was clearly impossible for her to quit her 
own board in advance of her guests. 

In the mean while two ladies had appear- 
ed at nine o’clock, and been ushered into 
the salon by old Assunta. In the vestibule 
they noticed the wraps of previous arrivals, 
and heard the hum of voices, the rattle of 
dishes in a neighboring dining-room. The 
salon was dark and cold. In the flurry of 
excitement incident to entertaining great 
people at dinner, the old Assunta had 
omitted to reilluminate the room at an 
earlier hour, as directed by her mistress. 
Or had she been actuated by the economy 
so inherent in a Florentine old woman, 
not to waste fuel and light when not re- 
quired ? 

She now bustled about, adding wood to 
the Are, and lighting, one by one, the can- 
dles of the candelabra on the chimney-piece. 
The two ladies were thus witnesses of the 
preliminary preparations for their recep- 
tion. They exchanged a glance: the sit- 
uation was awkward. Old Assunta with- 
drew, apparently well satisfied with the re- 
sult of her labors. 

“ What does it mean ?” said the elder 
lady. 

“I thought we were invited to an even- 
ing party,” returned the younger. 

Both were richly dressed. The mother, 
a slender, sallow woman, with an aquiline 
nose, wore a robe of gray satin and black 
lace, such as seldom swept into Mrs. Jeffer- 
son’s little salon. The daughter, a pretty 
girl of eighteen, was enveloped in one of 
those cloudy Parisian toilets, combined of 
rose-pink, white muslin, and Valenciennes, 
which belong to youth. 

Mrs. Bayard and daughter, the second 
new acquaintance proposed for Mrs. Jef- 
ferson, had accepted her invitation for the 
evening. 

Tiie lady rose from her chair and pulled 


a bell violently; her eye flashed, and an 
angry color had dawned in her cheek. 
Old Assunta appeared. 

“Ask her if her mistress is aware that 
Mrs. Bayard is -waiting in the salon” she 
demanded, imperiously, of her daughter. 

Celia, thus adjured, asked the question 
in Italian. Assunta nodded affably, gaz- 
ing the while at the train of Mrs. Bayard’s 
robe with an appreciative eye. 

“ One must have patience,” she said. 
“ The signora will come immediately. 
There is a dinner-party.” 

“What impertinence!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Bayard. “ There is a dinner-party, and we 
are invited to come afterward ! Why did 
this ill-bred woman ask us at all? I 
thought you might make some pleasant 
acquaintances, darling, as she is a resi- 
dent.” ' 

This stranger thus found herself in the 
position of the government official at Nice, 
described by Prosper Merim6e, whose invi- 
tation to the villa of an eccentric English 
lady -was couched in the form of a request 
to come after a charming little dinner 
which she intended to give. 

“ Let us go away !” exclaimed Celia, pet- 
ulantly. 

“The carriage has been sent off,” said 
Mrs. Bayard. 

She was undecided, moved by a desire 
to depart unseen, concealing her mortifica- 
tion from all eyes, and to remain, if only to 
overwhelm her delinquent hostess with the 
silent scorn of her condemnation. Was 
she, Mrs. Bayard, a person to be treated in 
this slighting fashion ? Accordingly she 
waited, biting her lip and tapping the wax- 
ed floor with her foot. 

Several young men, gleaned from the by- 
ways and hedges of Italian life by Mrs. 
Jefferson, slid into the salon with their hats 
under their arms, glanced about in vain 
for the hostess, and withdrew into corners 
discreetly, from -whence they cast puzzled 
glances at the two ladies, seated, very rig- 
id and stiff, before the fire. One of these 
youths went to the piano and began to play 
a waltz, witli eloquent glances directed 
from time to time at the fair vision in the 
Paris toilet. Celia put her fan before her 
face and yawned; the young man ceased 
to play abruptly. 

This was the scene of icy silence and 
constraint presented to the guests as they 
emerged from the dining-room, themselves 
more or less warmed and rosy from the 


51 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

feast. Mrs. Bayard rose to her full height, 
her satin and lace billowed about her 
right royally as she returned the saluta- 
tions and received the apologies of her 
hostess. 

Mrs. Jefferson cast a troubled eye over 
the attire of these strangers, and hastened 
to render the social atmosphere of the salon 
more congenial. She grouped the young 
men about Celia, and she impressively be- 
stowed both the bishop and the Count 
Guigione on Mrs. Bayard. In vain. The 
lady felt herself only the more humiliated 
by these attentions. All these people were 
thus made to plainly perceive that amends 
were due herself for the unwarrantable 
rudeness received by being forced into a 
false position. Haughtily she accepted the 
gentle attentions of the count, who was 
becoming a trifle grave and thoughtful; 
haughtily she accepted the overtures of 
the good bishop, who strove to find a topic 
of mutual interest. 

This was at length discovered in the 
regular army. Yes, Mrs. Bayard bright- 
ened a little, and was even led to allude to 
the tragic death of her own husband on 
the plains. 

“ Our hostess has the same claim on us 
all, I believe,” said the bishop, smoothly, 
and to include Mrs. Jefferson in the con- 
versation. “ Her husband was also an army 
officer.” 

“Ah!” — Mrs. Bayard turned to Mrs. Jef- 
ferson, and raised her eyebrows slightly — 

“ your husband belonged to the service, 
madame ? Possibly I have met him ; army 
people are usually clannish, and keep trace 
of each other.” 

Mrs. Jefferson grew a little pale. 

“ General Jefferson,” she murmured, and 
moved away to give an order about tea to 
the ubiquitous Giuseppe. 

Mrs. Hartwell, her hands folded primly 
in her lap, was mildly discussing Sunday- 
schools with the bishop’s wife. Her daugh- 
ter sat beside Celia, bewildered at being in- 
gulfed in a vortex of French small talk. 

Mrs. Bayard’s vigilance did not slumber, 
however. She was first to depart, excusing 
her withdrawal with studied politeness. 
Mrs. Jefferson insisted on placing the man- 
tle of silk and fur, mentally noting the 
quality of it, on the shoulders of the young 
girl. 

“ You visit Italy to study art, I believe ?” 
she said, abstractedly. 

Celia opened her eyes and laughed. 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

“ Oh no,” she said, simply. 

“ My daughter is very fond of society,” 
said Mrs. Bayard, tartly. 

The hostess made a last effort ; her own 
irritation was rising. If these people were 
affronted because they had come too early, 
was it her fault ? 

“ I am so sorry I was unable to receive 
you in the salon, ladies,” she said, with an 
edge to her tones. “ Here in Italy we go 
to bed so absurdly late. It is a habit one 
acquires in time, and these little evening 
reunions after dinner — quite informal — are 
very frequent among us.” 

Mrs. Bayard gathered up her train, thus 
plainly revealing to her antagonist the real 
Mechlin border to the balayeuse. 

“ Madame, the usages of politeness are 
the same in the best circles the world over. 
Good-night.” 

Then she went away ; and in the carriage 
Celia said, 

“ What a disagreeable woman, mamma ! 
I am sure she was not born a lady. Oh, 
how spitefully she looked after us !” 

“I will never speak to her again — no, 
not if I should live in Florence for a hun- 
dred years !” retorted Mrs. Bayard, with the 
vehemence of wrath. 

Mrs. Jefferson could not flatter herself 
that her dinner-party and evening had 
proved the success of those reunions of 
Madame Emile de Girardin, who, possessing 
the innate grace and tact requisite to draw 
out a guest, sent each away delighted with 
liis own brilliancy on the occasion — a charm 
which electrified even the genius of Balzac. 
The next day she received a second let- 
ter from Paris. She changed color as she 
read : 

“ My dear Friend, — I have only time to 
write you a line before taking a lady, just 
over, to the Monday sale at the Bon Marche. 
Young Black says that I have made a mis- 
take, but I am sure he is to blame. The 
rich lady who brings you a letter is a Mrs. 
Bayard. He thinks she intends to marry 
her daughter into the nobility. Mrs. Hart- 
well is from the country, and her daughter 
is studying to be an artist. 

“ In great haste, your affectionate, 

“Letitia Harde.” 

The “affectionate Letitia” did not re- 
ceive a gift of lace made by the Lambertini 
girl, and christened old Venetian point by 
the donor, Mrs. General Jefferson. 


52 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 
CHAPTER II. 

THE “ THREE FATES.” 

“ Let us go out, mamma,” said Celia, with 
a yawn, tossing aside the periodical she had 
been reading for the past hour. 

“We have not yet visited the Pitti Pal- 
ace, and one can do that very well on a 
rainy day,” replied her mother, reassuringly. 

Celia pouted. 

“ Oh, what a dismal place !” she cried. 

“ You would not like to live here, then ?” 
said Mrs. Bayard, meditatively. 

“ No, after Paris !” retorted the girl. She 
spoke with all the waywardness of a spoil- 
ed child, and rested her head against the 
window-pane, gazing out on a truly dreary 
scene. 

The rain fell monotonously, as it had 
done for a previous month, and the masses 
of cloud blotted the mountains from sight 
at times, and veiled in mist the opposite 
height of Bellosguardo. The Arno flowed 
along before Celia, turbid, yellow, bringing 
branches of trees or a debris of loose soil 
from the valleys above, and breaking into 
a line of fretted foam at the weir opposite 
the hotel. Occasionally a tourist, English, 
American, or German, passed, holding an 
umbrella over his head and a red guide- 
book under his arm. 

Suddenly she heard the tramping of 
many feet, and beheld advancing along the 
Lung’ Arno Nuovo, usually so deserted at 
this hour, first a ragged fringe of boys and 
men, and then a black band bearing a bier, 
covered with a sable pall. No lighted can- 
dles or chanting priests accompanied the 
passage of this bier. 

“ Oh, what is it ?” cried Celia, thrilled 
with sympathy and interest. “I must ask 
little Theresa.” 

Little Theresa was the femme de chambre 
of the hotel, and at this moment dusting 
one of Mrs. Bayard’s chambers. Theresa 
had glanced out of the window, ejaculated 
“Dio!” and resumed her dusting. The 
pretty little maid’s own eyes were red with 
weeping: she had just been severely scold- 
ed by her padrona for dropping a tray of 
crockery on the stairway. 

Celia returned to the salon. 

“ Theresa says it often happens, mamma. 
A man was seen praying before a shrine 
early this morning, and afterward he jump- 
ed from the bridge into the river. The 
Misericordia have been summoned to take 
him away and bury him.” 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

“ Terrible !” "was Mrs. Bayard’s comment. 

She had taken her stand at the window, 
and was looking out on the Arno, and the 
height of Bellosguardo, veiled in mist. The 
band of black brothers, with the attendant 
ragged fringe of crowd, had already disap- 
peared. The river flowed along with some- 
thing sinister in its aspect. Was it not a 
raging flood which had caught a feeble 
human atom in its clutches, played with it, 
and flung it — a broken toy — on the strand, 
to be reclaimed by its kind ? 

The hotel omnibus was before the door, 
and porters were in the act of hoisting lug- 
gage to the roof by means of the little lad- 
der. Mrs. Bayard surveyed these prepara- 
tions with the indecision of a stranger 
homesick in the present locality, and equal- 
ly doubtful about roaming on to the next 
city. Mrs. Hartwell, in water-proof ulster, 
and her head enveloped in a blue barege 
veil, entered the omnibus, followed by her 
pale daughter. 

“I wonder if it would have been wiser 
to have sought Rome, Naples, or even Nice?” 
said Mrs. Bayard, anxiously, and scarcely 
heeding her daughter’s explanation about 
the suicide. 

“Yes; let us go away,” said Celia. 

“ There is the fever at Rome and Naples,” 
demurred the mother. “ I should never for- 
give myself for having exposed you to its 
influence.” 

“ People fall ill everywhere,” retorted Ce- 
lia, petulantly. “ That poor Theresa is very 
unhappy, mamma ; they treat her cruelly 
here. I believe I will take her for my own 
little maid.” 

Mrs. Bayard smiled and kissed her child, 
in whom she beheld reflected her own 
youth. Inoffensive Mrs. Hartwell, equip- 
ped for a journey, and departing in the ho- 
tel omnibus, had kindled afresh the 'flame 
of anger in her breast. She had never ex- 
changed a word with the lady, and knew 
nothing about her. Who was this plain 
traveller, in a brown silk gown and linen 
collar, to command more attention from a 
resident than herself — attentions the more 
marked as both new arrivals were occu- 
pants of the same hotel ? No doubt Mrs. 
Hartwell and her daughter had vastly 
amused themselves at her expense. They 
had dined with a bishop, while she had 
waited in a cold salon for the repast to be 
finished. 

A week had elapsed since Mrs. Jefferson’s 
dinner-party. Mrs. Bayard had left cards 


53 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

at that lady’s house the following clay, and 
the latter had extended the olive-branch of 
peace by immediately presenting herself at 
the hotel armed with softest humility, flat- 
tery, and amicable suggestions concerning 
Celia’s future amusement — hints which 
would melt the heart of the most obdurate 
parent. Mrs. Bayard was not at home. Mrs. 
Jefferson retired, baffled and discomforted. 
Was it not a happy occasion for the assertion 
of one’s dignity ? Mrs. Bayard’s hasty deci- 
sion and triumph blinded her to any ad- 
vantage which might be gained from an 
acquaintance with Mrs. Jefferson. She re- 
fused to accept the resident as a “stair- 
case ” to better things, not because she was 
superior to this phase of fashionable sel- 
fishness, but because her own self-love was 
ruffled, and the measure was beneath her 
dignity. 

Possessed of more innate refinement than 
Mrs. Jefferson, she was also prepared to 
make her own way in a foreign city. She 
expected to be sought, her appearance and 
position being unexceptionable ; and she 
did not credit the cruel fact that the death 
of her young husband eighteen years ago 
was forgotten, if ever much known. She 
always anticipated that, when her name 
was mentioned in a crowded salon , some 
American present would at least exclaim, 
“ Bayard ! Can this lady be the wife of 
the brave officer who perished fighting the 
Indians on the plains so long ago ? Let us 
hasten to extend a hand to her !” Doubly 
was it the duty of the delinquent Mrs. Jef- 
ferson to have received her with more con- 
sideration, if her own husband was an offi- 
cer of the regular army. 

“I never heard of this General Jefferson, 
and I have always kept up with army 
news,” she mused. I will write home for 
an official list, and satisfy myself.” 

Celia was disappointed and fretted by 
the collision with Mrs. Jefferson. 

“Why cannot people remain friends, es- 
pecially when they do not care enough 
about each other to quarrel?” said the 
young girl, jrith unconscious wisdom. 

Mrs. Bayard was changed since the morn- 
ing, five years previous, when she heard, 
with throbbing heart and blanching cheek, 
that Nehemiah Methley had been found 
dead in his bed. No will had been dis- 
covered, no rival claimants had appeared 
to dispute her rights by an attempt to 
prove the most remote relationship, and 
she had taken possession of the property 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

as next of kin. Who was to interfere with 
her? Not a person; neither trustee nor 
guardian. The affair had been a nine 
days’ wonder in the little village of Her- 
ringville, on the coast of New England, 
where Nehemiah Methley lived. 

Marvel of marvels ! the millionnaire had 
made no will. The most avaricious, grasp- 
ing, and domineering of men, who loved 
his gold living, had bidden the four winds 
scatter it like chaff when his own heart 
ceased to beat. Herringville would never 
have believed it possible. Nehemiah Meth- 
ley, on any preconceived theory of his char- 
acter, would have schemed and meditated 
long on the arrangement and disposition 
of his Tvorldly goods, aiding himself by 
means of the strictest rules of the law, 
with the aim of curbing the liberty of an 
inheritor. Or was there a certain irony in 
this carelessness? If he could no longer 
grasp his own purse-strings, was he indif- 
ferent to whom that purse fell ? Herring- 
ville shook its head and pondered without 
arriving at a satisfactory solution of the 
enigma. 

Mrs. Bayard, leaving Hannah Stort in 
charge of the old homestead, with a stipu- 
lated income, departed. 

From the first day of her new prosperity 
a shadow moved beside this heiress — the 
shadow of a great fear: Captain Methley 
might- be still alive, and return some 
day. If she received a letter, her lips 
whitened and her hand trembled. She 
seemed to read in advance, “ The farce is 
ended; drop your sceptre. Tidings have 
been received of Captain Methley.” At 
times, spurred by sleeplessness and feverish 
unrest, she projected buying and equipping 
a vessel, after the manner of Jules Verne’s 
heroes, which should make the tour of the 
world, touching at every port for news of 
the captain and his wrecked ship. Then 
she shrunk from the discoveries this mes- 
senger might make. Soon enough the 
truth would dawn on her ! 

A woman of sanguine temperament, if 
the shadow did not diminish in time, at 
least ambition and prosperity began to 
buoy up her spirit to resist it. The child- 
ish delight of Celia in possessing wealth 
was shared, if not exceeded, by the intoxi- 
cation of her mother. Both literally threw 
money out at the window for the novel 
pleasure of disbursing it. 

“ Oh, mamma, how extravagant you are 1” 
Celia would exclaim, when Mrs. Bayard, 


54 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


wrapped in a new India shawl, surveyed 
herself complacently in a mirror. 

“ Oh, Celia, how extravagant you are !” 
the mother would retort, gayly, when the 
young girl clasped about her throat a neck- 
lace of coral of the most delicate rose-tint. 

Then they both looked into each other’s 
eyes and laughed. They were rich ! They 
could go where they wished, ancl act as 
best suited themselves. Incredible happi- 
ness ! The fairy casket had been delivered 
into their keeping by so strange and dark 
a fate as stern old Nehemiah Metliley ; — 
they were free to scatter its jewels. 

The thought of the future sobered Mrs. 
Bayard. Where should she live ? To 
what phase of life should Celia belong 
when educated ? She had obeyed her first 
dream of extravagance, and taken quarters 
in a very expensive hotel on the Fifth Ave- 
nue of New York. Already she asked her- 
self if this experiment was not Dead Sea 
fruit, crumbling to ashes of disappointment 
between her lips. She had no friends 
whom she cared to remember in her new 
position ; she was even without acquaint- 
ances. To what purpose, therefore, did 
she buy rich clothes or drive about in a 
fine carriage? Even the bell-boy of the 
corridor must be aware, by means of that 
electric cord, the servants’ world, of which 
her own coachman must be one end, that 
she made no visits and received none. 
Thus the gay world, in which she had no 
place, rolled past her window, and did not 
pause. How could she gain admission to 
the society of this or any other city of the 
Atlantic seaboard ? Celia might be sent to 
a fashionable school, and would naturally 
make acquaintances among her school- 
mates, which would serve her when she 
emerged a “ finished ” young lady. During 
these intervening years Mrs. Bayard could 
establish herself in a handsome home ; but 
would the measure insure her an entrance 
into those social circles where her ambi- 
tion placed Celia? No. American re- 
publican society, which Europe deems com- 
posed of the most indiscriminate elements, 
is not as easily accessible as is imagined. 
The foreigner, bearer of forged letters of 
introduction, may, indeed, make his way 
readily into the best houses of the land, in 
the same manner that the American ad- 
venturer crosses the threshold of Belgravia, 
armed with fictitious credentials ; but for a 
native, poor and obscure, suddenly to at- 
tain riches, the entree is more difficult. The 


end may be attained after the lapse of 
years. 

Usually the children, better educated, 
and accorded many advantages by paternal 
pride, gain the place never occupied by 
their fathers. Be assured the same mock- 
ery will attend their success, among their 
guests, as the Old World can bestow — the 
same open or covert allusions be made to 
the source of their fortune as were launch- 
ed at a chevalier of the late French Em- 
pire, in the pointed suggestion that he 
must be a judge of fish, his grandmother 
having sold it in the Halle. 

Mrs. Bayard thought of Washington in 
the winter season as an open field, but she 
saw a more dazzling and agreeable method 
of bridging the few years of study inter- 
vening between Celia’s debut on some stage. 
She would go to Europe. There every 
American is entitled to the same consider- 
ation ; the door of society must be open to 
all alike, with the aid of official presenta- 
tion. 

Mrs. Bayard and her daughter according- 
ly sailed for Liverpool. 

The sole person interested in their de- 
parture was Hannah Stort. This faithful 
guardian of the old homestead at Herring- 
ville, who had been left in charge, much to 
her own satisfaction, went about the man- 
sion, on the day she received these tid- 
ings, opening and closing windows, polish- 
ing and rearranging furniture with more 
care than usual. One might have supposed 
that a sole responsibility for the treasures 
of the Methley family inspired in her a 
fresh impulse of activity and vigilance. 

Mrs. Bayard took Celia to Dresden and 
Stuttgart for two years of instruction in 
German, music, and drawing, then devoted 
the remaining three to French polish and 
accent. However defective the foundation 
of the young girl’s English education might 
be, every attainable accomplishment was 
lavished on her. At the age of eighteen 
she was ready to be presented to an admir- 
ing world by her proud mother. Mrs. 
Bayard journeyed to Italy. A* cloud cas- 
tle rose before her : Celia must attain a brill- 
iant position. 

Paris was still in the state of social tran- 
sition which followed the siege and the 
Commune ; it was even losing the prestige 
of dictating fashions to the world as ab- 
solutely as formerly. London, Vienna, or 
New York had developed the courage of 
independence in these respects. No court 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


55 


gathered about the throne that luxury and 
splendor alone attracted in Europe to a 
central light of royalty. Many of the old 
nobility had deserted their quarters, still 
shuddering at the remembrance of their own 
hotels anointed with petroleum from cel- 
lar to mansarde , and remained at their cha- 
teaux in the provinces for the twelvemonth. 

Mrs. Bayard had developed in these five 
years. She did not confess it to herself, 
but her hope for Celia in marriage touched 
at least the Faubourg St. Germain. She 
had come to Florence without definite plans 
other than to pass the winter in a famous 
and beautiful city, which had ever occupied 
a place in her imagination as a sort of 
tropical paradise. Her first experience had 
been a 'serious affront. 

An hour later the two ladies drove out, 
actuated by a mutual restlessness and dis- 
like for the sombre and monotonous hours 
spent in their hotel. Soon they reached 
the Ponte Vecchio, threatened with demo- 
lition by modern United Italy in the ardent 
desire to remodel old towns after Baron 
Haussman, irrespective of a former pict- 
uresque charm. The twin rows of tiny 
shops glittered with gold and silver ware ; 
the open spaces afforded glimpses of misty 
river in each direction ; rain dripped from 
the quaint little roofs, the sundial, and 
dimmed the panes of the casement above, 
where a Medici might look down from the 
gallery connecting the two palaces of Ufiizi 
and Pitti on opposite banks of the stream. 
The horses slipped and stumbled on the 
damp pavement, and rivulets poured from 
the rim of the coachman’s hat. Celia shiv- 
ered in her furred mantle. 

“ Ilow wretched the people look !” she 
murmured. 

Beyond, they entered narrow, dark streets, 
where gloomy old houses crowd together 
with black abyss of gate-way, and cavernous 
casements heavily grated. A woman stood 
in a door, holding a scaldino wrapped in 
her apron, and peered at them as they pass- 
ed. At the corner the statue in the niche 
of a fountain glistened with moisture. A 
debris of fruit and vegetables marked the 
passage of vendors and their carts, mingling 
their odors with that of cheese, so plentiful 
in the adjacent huckster shops. On the 
left they had a glimpse of a little piazza 
before the Church of Santa Felicity and 
the central column marking the spot where 
fell young Buondelmonte. Then the nar- 
row streets— scenes of so many historical 


tragedies in past years — widened to the 
open piazza of the Pitti Palace. 

Royalty needed a breathing-space, and 
surely found it in this magnificent abode. 

“ How would you like to be a king, and 
occupy all those state apartments, mamma ?” 
inquired Celia, as the carriage wheeled up 
to the small and insignificant entrance of 
the wing leading to the picture-gallery. 

“ They must be very chill and uncomfort- 
able,” was Mrs. Bayard’s prosaic reply. 

The Sala of Jove was gloomy, cold, de- 
serted, but the gray sky visible through 
those lofty casements could only subdue 
the richness of the interior. The statue of 
Victory, in the centre of the apartment, 
stood, as if carved out of snow, inscribing 
on her shield — Montebello ; the tables of 
Egyptian porphyry, chalcedony, and jasper 
along the wall gleamed like ice; the gor- 
geous ceiling, gilded and frescoed, glowed 
like an inverted shell. Above the door, Sal- 
vator Rosa’s “ Conspiracy of Catiline ” was 
quenched in gloom ; Andrea del Sarto’s “ St. 
Catherine ” knelt before a shadowy Madonna 
and Son ; Fra Bartolomeo’s “ St. Mark,” co- 
lossal, severe, majestic, gazed down from his 
niche, grasping the pen and gospel. Such 
light of the day as the place might gather 
rested on Andrea del Sarto’s “Annuncia- 
tion,” where the angel knelt to the meekly 
expectant Virgin, two attendant spirits paus- 
ing behind ; and the mantle of a spectator, 
on the balcony of the background, glowed 
like a ruby. 

Opposite, Leonardo da Vinci’s exquisite- 
ly delicate portrait of a lady smiled at the 
spectator. No throng of easels besieged 
her — this spiritual lady with the subtle ten- 
derness of mockery in her expression, per- 
haps at her own isolation. She is alone, 
just as the portrait of Leonardo is unique 
in that throng of artists whose faces line 
the walls of the Ufiizi, his intellectual head 
framed in softly flowing hair and beard, his 
brilliant eye seeming still to scan and an- 
alyze the new'-comer with the marvellous 
power of a universal genius. 

In the next room eager cbpyists gather 
like bees about a flower, reproducing the 
Madonna della Seggiola, the pearly tints of 
Murillo’s “ Holy Family,” and even daring 
to essay the Vision of Ezekiel, in the whirl- 
wind sweep of the Deity through the heav- 
ens, but leave this placid, tranquil lady of 
Leonardo’s untouched. 

Mrs. Bayard yawned drearily, and seated 
herself in an arm-chair. The wearisome at- 


56 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

tempt to skate over chill floors depressed 
her ; the process of peering at dark canvases 
by old masters with whom she was unfa- 
miliar, or whose names had become hope- 
lessly confused in her brain, fatigued her 
eyes. She sat in her arm-chair, and studied 
the costume of a fellow-tourist who had en- 
tered — a bride, evidently, leaning on the arm 
of a handsome man. The color and style 
of the dress suited her taste ; she mentally 
resolved to write to her dress-maker on the 
Rue de la Paix, and order one similar for 
Celia. 

“ I wonder if they are Americans ?” 
thought Mrs. Bayard, with a second dreary 
yawn. 

Celia had roamed on alone. In a corner 
Michael Angelo’s “Fates” had been placed 
on an easel to be copied. The young girl 
paused, mute and spellbound, before these 
old women. Grim Clotho held her spindle ; 
grim Lachesis twisted her flax ; grim Atro- 
pos poised with unrelenting, stoical calm- 
ness the fatal shears, prepared to sever the 
thread : three old women, clad in sombre 
garments, their heads draped, with hollow, 
wise eyes, shrivelled mouths, and long bony 
fingers clutching at the emblem of their 
power. Such gleams of hope as are per- 
ceptible on Clotho’s face w T ane on that of 
Lachesis, die in the lineaments of Atro- 
pos, always with her inexorable shears up- 
lifted. 

In the head of the old woman, thrice re- 
peated, who gave her only son to fight in 
the siege of Florence, caught by the great 
master, Celia found more than a curious 
study of haggard age. An odd fancy, half 
retrospective, crossed her mind. It was also 
the face of Hannah Stort, the house-keeper 
at home, as she sat in the shadow on the 
night after Nehemiah Metliley’s death, 
watching them. 

The young copyist, absorbingly interest- 
ed in his task of depicting each furrow in 
the withered cheeks of the sisters, became 
aware of Celia looking over his shoulder. 
He moved aside courteously, for her the 
better to inspect his work, with a sudden 
flash of black eyes, and snowy teeth in a 
smile. He studied her askance in turn, 
with subtle quickness of perception of her 
beauty, which contrasted so vividly with 
the picture; his own olive face was softly 
rounded, like that of a girl. A youthful 
artist with a luxuriant crown of brown 
curls such as alone cluster on an Italian 
head, and a young critic in velvet and furs, 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

both colored on cheek and lip with a rose- 
bloom which the cold gray day, with its 
weeping skies, could not blanch, pausing 
before Michael Angelo’s “Fates,” who seem- 
ed to gaze back at them from the canvas in 
an apathetic manner, unmingled with ma- 
lignant hatred, as furnishing the mirror of 
inevitable age. 

“Is the copy for sale?” inquired Celia, 
timidly. 

The young copyist bowed, the rich carna- 
tion of his cheek deepened. 

“ Si, signorina, and the price two hun- 
dred francs,” he replied. 

“Ah!” 

Celia returned to her mother, elated and 
excited. 

“Mamma, come and look at tbe portrait 
of old Hannah Stort,” she whispered. 

“The portrait of Hannah Stort in the 
Pitti Palace !” repeated Mrs. Bayard, crossly. 

Celia dragged her over to the easel. 

“Hannah resembled that the night he 
died,” she whispered again, pulling her 
mother’s sleeve. 

Mrs. Bayard shuddered slightly. 

“A mere fancy,” she replied, dryly. “I 
cannot perceive a trace of likeness.” 

“ But, mamma, let us buy this copy,” in- 
sisted the girl. 

“ Nonsense !” said Mrs. Bayard, a little 
tartly, and turned away. 

The bright face of the young copyist 
clouded. What hopes had he not built on 
the quicksand of Celia’s smile ? She hung 
her head, and followed her mother in si- 
lence. 

Rain dashed against the window of the 
Hall of Flora, where Canova’s “ Venus” steps 
forth daintily and mincingly from the bath. 
Rain beat on the pane where the Ducal 
Madonna clasps her dimpled baby to her 
breast, and Giorgione’s “ Musicians” glance 
out of the canvas with a startling vitality 
of life and power. Titian’s “ La Bella ” and 
“ Queen of Cyprus ” grew sombre, passed un- 
der the shadow of the day ; while his “ Mag- 
dalen,” garnering the eclipsed sunshine still 
in the warm, living gold of her own tresses, 
gained an enhancing loveliness of spiritual 
beauty from surrounding gloom. 

The wind soughed drearily in the long 
connecting gallery flung across the river. 
The tapestries lining the walls revealed 
heroes, warriors, Oriental beauties, which 
started into vivid relief, and faded into 
ghostly obscurity, as Mrs. Bayard and her 
daughter traversed the winding passage. 


57 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


Cosirao I. watched at one angle for fresh 
victims, the pale melancholy Eleanore of 
Toledo at his side ; other portraits of the 
Medicis lined the space beyond. In the 
cases they saw the precious sketches gar- 
nered here like autumn leaves — beautiful 
heads by Mantegna, Masaccio, Botticelli, or 
Lippi, and minute drawings by Fra Angel- 
ico, so faint and evanescent that they re- 
semble the very shadow of an angel’s 
wing. 

“After all, the ‘ Three Fates’ should have 
been placed in this connecting passage,” 
chirped Celia, still haunted by the picture. 
“ Clotho should peer out from behind the 
tapestries, frightening you with her gray 
face. This gallery is so long and deserted, 
with unexpected steps and turnings, you 
cannot conjecture who may suddenly ap- 
pear before you.” 

“A knight in armor,” suggested Mrs. 
Bayard, with a faint smile. 

“Ora ghost,” laughed Celia. 

At the extremity of the place, instead 
of climbing the steps to the Uffizi, she 
paused. 

“ Let us return and buy the copy of the 
‘ Fates,’ mamma. The young artist was so 
disappointed. Besides, it is not really a 
portrait of Hannah Stort, you know. What 
if you were obliged to earn your bread by 
copying great works, madame, and only 
asked two hundred francs ?” 

“ Very well,” assented her mother, yield- 
ing. 

Celia returned to the young copyist and 
bought his work. He bowed, smiling and 
radiant, and set about finishing it with re- 
doubled zeal. The two hundred francs 
was a fortune to him, but the success was 
still more. He took up a piece of paper, 
and strove to reproduce the oval face and 
large soft eyes of his fair patroness. 

“ Let us stop at some of those fanny old 
shops in the Via Maggio, now,” cried Celia, 
well satisfied with her morning. 

The history of this old street, running be- 
tween the river and the Porta Romana, like 
its neighbor the Via dei Seragli, possessed no 
interest for Mrs. Bayard. She was vaguely 
aware that a nobleman — Buonaccorso Vel- 
luti, who had built a palace in the quarter 
toward the middle of the thirteenth centu- 
ry — was ridiculed by his fashionable friends 
for living so far from Florence. She also 
knew that, farther on toward the gate, Eliz- 
abeth Barret Browning had gazed forth 
from the windows of Casa Guidi, hoping 


all things for the future of beautiful Italy. 
Each massive dwelling might w T ell serve 
still for the heroes and heroines of Shak- 
speare in the feuds and romances of these 
good old Italian families. Her attention 
was aroused only by the charming novelty 
of exploring bric-&-brac shops in accord- 
ance with Celia’s sprightly suggestion. 

The carriage paused before the house of 
Bianca Cappella. This was the residence, 
built by herself, and decorated in the Flor- 
entine manner, of the “Venetian Witch,” 
whose story runs like a golden thread, 'be- 
cause of her beauty, through the dark tap- 
estry of history, terminating in the death 
by poison of herself and the Grand Duke 
at their villa of Poggio a Cajano. 

“Bianca Cappella lived here,” mused 
Celia. 

“Yes,” assented her mother. “There is 
a shop of old masters across the street.” 

“ Old masters !” repeated Celia, with a 
pretty aspect of wisdom. “I do not be- 
lieve we could be easily deceived in works 
of art now, mamma. We are not like peo- 
ple just over, you know.” 

At this moment a lady and gentleman 
emerged from the identical treasure-house 
of old masters, and greeted Mrs. Bayard 
and Celia with smiles of recognition and 
outstretched hands. Never had Mrs. Bay- 
ard experienced the same warmth of pleas- 
ure in greeting casual and indifferent ac- 
quaintances as on the Via Maggio this 
rainy morning. The lady was common- 
place, nay, wholly insignificant, in the scale 
of American colony at Paris ; and yet how 
glad she was to take her hand with a cor- 
dial pressure. The husband was a plain 
business man, managing the French branch 
of an American importing house — dull and 
reticent in a salon — but poor Mrs. Bayard 
thought she had never beheld a more sym- 
pathetic face. She was absolutely grate- 
ful to the pair for recognizing her to-day. 
Celia was radiant with smiles. 

“ Dear Mrs. Bayard, have you seen those 
pictures?” chirped the lady. “The old 
man actually has a ‘ Spring-time ’ by Cordeg- 
liano, pupil of Giovanni Bellini, for which 
he demands twelve thousand pounds.” 

“ I should like it,” laughed Celia. 

“ He says Americans lack self-confidence 
about purchasing pictures for themselves,” 
added the husband, smoothing a sandy 
beard. “One might infer something be- 
sides timidity was involved in buying 
‘The Venetian Lady,’ copied by Titian 


58 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

later, in bis ‘ Flora,’ according to our au- 
thority.” 

“Have you just arrived from Paris ?” de- 
manded Mrs. Bayard, eagerly. 

The lady raised both hands with a French 
gesture. “We are returning to Paris, Dieu 
merci! We have made the Italian tour. 
Yes, Rome is superb, with such a soft, de- 
licious climate when the sun shines; and 
dear, delightful, noisy, dirty Naples ! Flor- 
ence is perfectly horrid. You need not 
look shocked, Celia. I always detested 
Florence, and I always shall continue to 
detest it, my dear. How any one can live 
here I am at a loss to imagine. It always 
rains, and the hotels are so wretched !” 

Mrs. Bayard’s face clouded ; Celia ceased 
to smile. 

“We have thought we might like it,” 
murmured the former, doubtfully. “If 
you were going south I should be glad to 
join your party.” 

“ So sorry !” retorted her friend, glancing 
up and down the street. 

“ You had better return to Paris with us, 
instead,” chimed in the husband. “ Our 
people always find their way back to the 
Boulevards and the Champs Elysges, soon- 
er or later, you know.” 

“Yes,” assented Mrs. Bayard, still per- 
plexed. 

“I love Paris!” cried Celia, with youth- 
ful enthusiasm. “We have not seen Italy 
yet, however.” 

“You surely do not intend to live in 
Florence?” exclaimed the Parisienne by 
adoption, elevating her eyebrows. 

“I do not know,” said Mrs. Bayard, 
slowly. 

“ One never can tell what may happen,” 
added Celia, shaking her head. 

“You may marry a prince, my dear! 
Well, look us up when you come to Paris 
again. You will always find us at the old 
place on the Avenue Friedland. Au re- 
wir .” 

“ She is the silliest little woman in Eu- 
rope !” exclaimed Mrs Bayard, looking af- 
ter her late companion. “As if people 
could not exist out of Paris !” 

Celia’s mother was ruffled, perplexed, al- 
most angry with the people who had just 
quitted her. Had she made a mistake in 
seeking Italy ? 

A second gentleman emerged from the 
picture-shop, and bowed as he passed Mrs. 
Bayard, who scarcely heeded his greeting 
in her preoccupation. This second lover 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

of art was Count Guigione, and he scanned 
her face, reading clearly the indecision 
and irritation there so plainly depicted. 
The study of the human countenance had 
always interested this nobleman ; he found 
that of Mrs. Bayard singularly attractive 
just now. 

The Via Maggio is a net-work prepared 
by crafty spiders for such unwary flies 
as these ladies. In its shops the charm 
wrought on connoisseur and amateur col- 
lector consists in the possibility, nay, prob- 
ability, of discovering a gem. Amidst the 
deceptions of a defrauding world of imita- 
tions in antiquity dealers elsewhere, in the 
Via Maggio remains the chance of pur- 
chasing the art treasures of a decayed no- 
bility needing bread, or the relics of chapel 
and convent saved from the sequestrated 
church property. In the day when rich 
missals disappear from the collections of 
the Uffizi library, and that of San Marco, to 
reappear in other markets, may not one 
find the tripdytch of some noble ladies of 
Siena in a curiosity shop ? Had not Mrs. 
Jefferson purchased a set of old Ginori por- 
celain, brought for sale by the Count Car- 
mine Guigione ? 

Mrs. Bayard found the web of the first 
spider irresistibly fascinating. The meshes 
were decked with beads of enamel, amber, 
and gold ; carvings, pearl shells, fans, an- 
tique w T atclies, and historical miniatures 
were not lacking. The spider was aided 
by his daughter, a seductive young spider- 
ess of Dutch extraction, who smilingly led 
Mrs. Bayard through by-ways of tall clocks, 
vases, faience, and the beautifully inlaid 
Florentine furniture. A crucifix of ivory 
and ebony, an enamelled reliquary, a bowl 
of Chinese porcelain, a god in jade-stone — 
the young spideress could readily produce 
one and all of these articles. Rusty armor 
hung on pegs ; a black cabinet, ornamented 
with raised figures and flowers of ivory, 
contained in its drawers fragile snuffboxes 
and specimens of precious marbles. A bust 
of Messalina stood on a bracket, the head 
small and fine, the features regular, the lips 
full and cruel in expression. Time had 
mellowed the marble of this bust, which 
gained additional richness of tint from the 
porphyry mantle knotted on one shoulder. 
Where Messalina had been obtained w T as 
clearly the affair of the spiders; to the 
young spideress she represented four thou- 
sand francs and nothing more. 

Other spiders abounded. Mrs. Bayard 


59 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

and Celia were fairly ’entangled in. their 
midst. There were artistic spiders, with 
frightful copies of Raphael or Carlo Dolce, 
which those masters, happily, would have 
failed to recognize ; and lace-collecting spi- 
ders, sure of the victims who had braved 
the seductions of old china, but must inev- 
itably yield to the saffron -tinted squares 
and metres of Venetian and cardinal point. 
There were shabby old spiders in dingy lit- 
tle shops with somewhat battered wares — 
carvings apt to fall to pieces before fairly 
purchased, sombre martyrdoms painted on 
copper, worm-eaten frames covered with 
dust, and a rare bargain, hidden away in a 
coffer, in the shape of a dish of Gubbio or 
Urbino ; and impressive spiders, with the 
Queen of Cyprus in her gorgeous robes, 
framed in ebony, on the wall, surrounded 
by richest specimens of porcelain and crys- 
tal, who were disposed to show a customer, 
as an especial favor, the name of an English 
lord inscribed on a book of orders. 

The hours rolled on ; the coachman wait- 
ed outside in the reeking street, with the 
moisture dripping from his hat-brim. At 
length Oelia emerged, smiling, and a little 
flushed with the pleasant excitement of in- 
vestigating the treasures of the old shops. 
She carried a delicate specimen of Vene- 
tian glass in her hand, which she broke be- 
fore reaching home ; while the latest spi- 
der, well pleased with her, placed in the 
carriage a mosaic jewel-box, a small picture 
of a court beauty in a deep frame set with 
stones — turquoise, lapis, carnelian, and mal- 
achite — a heterogeneous collection of coins, 
one of the massive bronze copies of the 
Pope’s hand-bell, and a pair of brass can- 
dlesticks. 

“ Silly child, what will you do with these 
bibelots demanded Mrs. Bayard, as she also 
emerged from the shop, a packet of lace in 
her own hand. 

“ Oh, keep them,” said Celia, vaguely. 

Then both became aware that Mrs. Jeffer- 
son’s coupg had paused near, with that lady 
in it, while Count Carmine Guigione stood 
at the door conversing with her. Mrs. Bay- 
ard returned coldly the bow of Mrs. Jef- 
ferson and the profound salutation of the 
count. The gentleman would ever be as- 
sociated in her mind with the dinner-par- 
ty, and therefore avoided. 

“Do not fail to come to me Thursday 
evening, dear Count Guigione,” cried Mrs. 
Jefferson, in a louder key than the propin- 
quity of the count absolutely required, un- 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

less he were deaf. “ The young people will 
depend upon you for all their pleasure.” 

“ Ah, madame is too amiable,” replied the 
count, bowing. 

“ Do you hear ? That remark was made 
for our benefit,” said Mrs. Bayard, as they 
drove away. “This ill-bred woman in- 
tends to give an entertainment for young 
people, and not invite you.” 

“Perhaps she was offended that you 
would receive none of her apologies,” said 
Celia, meditatively. 

She was thinking of a beautiful robe of 
blue silk which she might have worn to 
Mrs. Jefferson’s party. 

“ No, I would not accept her apologies,” 
returned her mother, with a flashing eye 
and heightened color. “ Her conduct was 
very mysterious, all the same.” 

The count still rested his hand on the 
door of Mrs. Jefferson’s coup A 

“That lady will spend the winter in 
Florence?” he inquired, gazing after the 
departing carriage of Mrs. Bayard. 

“ No, decidedly not,” returned Mrs. Jeffer- 
son, sharply. “ She is a traveller, and will 
soon leave.” 

Then they separated. 

“Mrs. Jefferson must know,” mused the 
count. 

Despite the lady’s assurance, however, 
he entered several of the shops recently 
quitted by Celia and her mother. Why 
not ? The count possessed a mild curiosi- 
ty and an abundance of leisure, if little else 
in this world. 

The sombre day was merging into mel- 
ancholy twilight when Mrs. Bayard’s car- 
riage crossed the Ponte Santa Trinity. 
Celia refused to return to the hotel. 

“Let us just drive to the Duorno,” she 
entreated. 

The coachman, receiving the order, paused 
a moment, nodded, and then demurred. 

“ If we are permitted to pass through the 
crowd, signorina.” 

“There will be a crowd?” cried Celia, 
with sparkling eyes. 

The coachman was wise. He had vouch- 
safed no explanation, because he believed 
Celia aware of the object of her drive to 
the Duomo. A dense crowd, such as any 
public spectacle invariably concentrates in 
this city, lined the Via Tornabuoni, the Via 
Cererani, the Via Calciaoli, and was massed 
in uncounted multitudes in the Piazza del 
Duomo. The carriage advanced slowly, 
pausing frequently, driven back, or turned 


GO 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE ; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


aside by the officious Italian gendarme, 
who is never so self-important as under 
similar circumstances. At length, by an 
adroit movement, the coachman placed 
himself directly before the door of the 
Cathedral, in the little space by the Cam- 
panile, and, after some expostulation on the 
part of irate guards, was suffered to remain. 

“ What is it ?” demanded Mrs. Bayard, 
eagerly. 

The coachman did not heed this ques- 
tion, uttered in English. A young man 
standing beside the wheel lifted his shabby 
cap, and said, 

“ Madame, it is the funeral of the old 
Prince del Giglio. He will be soon brought 
here by the Misericordia.” 

“ Thank you,” said Mrs. Bayard, with 
lofty affability, such as a young man in a 
shabby cap was entitled to receive. 

Celia scarcely heard ; she did not glance 
at the young man. She was trembling, ei- 
ther with cold or a disquieting sense of pro- 
found emotion. She had forgotten the Pitti 
Palace, with its state apartments, marbles, 
and the “Three Fates.” The quaint and 
rich shops of the Yia Maggio, even the “ Ve- 
netian Lady,” “ Spring-time ” in her green 
robe, had also vanished from her thoughts. 
She was here a spectator , but one for whom 
the scene had been long in preparation. 

Those vague reveries of a young girl, 
bridging abysses and scaling lofty heights, 
took this form in the imagination of Mrs. 
Bayard’s daughter. The flower chains 
linked together in childhood are not more 
fragile or more perishable. Above her head 
towered the vast pile of the Duomo, more 
impressive in its marble purity because of 
the atmosphere of sad gray twilight; a bit- 
ter wind swept in fitful gusts over Dante’s 
seat — the stone on which he sat in the long 
summer evenings, after the gregarious na- 
tional custom. Opposite, the door of the 
Misericordia Chapel, hung with black, was 
open, suggesting rather than revealing the 
interior — the gilded altar, the walls panel- 
led in dark wood, and the bier covered with 
a sable pall embroidered with those ghast- 
ly emblems, the skull and cross-bones. 

Suddenly the great bell sent forth its 
summons over the expectant town. Mel- 
low, silvery, and full this peal rose and 
fell; the crowd parted with uncovered 
head, the black brotherhood advanced. If 
the Prince del Giglio had been ushered 
into life by this beautiful bell, it might 
well have been his wish to have its solemn 


cadence serve as his knell. What a con- 
trast with the hurried transport of the sui- 
cide along the Arno in the morning, was 
this ceremonial of the evening ! A line 
of wavering color marked the passage of 
the clergy in rich vestments, the shimmer 
of white-robed acolytes flitted after, while 
through clouds of incense great candles 
flickered, and the banner of the society, 
velvet and gold, hovered above the heads 
of the throng. Then came the sable band, 
hooded and masked, with their charge in 
the midst. 

The order of the Misericordia ! The 
world has no more noble charity, if the one 
supreme excellence might be added — char- 
ity irrespective of creed. The past is rap- 
idly yielding to an arrogant, intrusive pres- 
ent; modern hotel omnibuses jostle equi- 
pages freighted with the latest Frencli 
fashions. Lo ! the great bell booms, and 
the Misericordia appears. The present van- 
ishes as if at the stroke of a magician’s 
wand; the modern squares and boulevards, 
with their stunted trees, disappear; the 
French toilets give place, like a cloud of 
butterflies, to stately dames in velvet and 
brocades, the fabrics woven of gorgeous 
dyes, and wrought in Florentine looms, 
which have lost their cunning, and suffer- 
ed the art to slip away to nimble-finger- 
ed France, along with the Gobelin tapes- 
try. The centuries revolve to the year 
1348, and these brothers of mercy issue 
forth to minister to a plague-stricken city, 
as they have tended sick and dying since. 
If the prayer of the founder, Piero di Luca 
Borsi, was, “ Lord, keep my memory green,” 
it must have been granted fourfold. 

The great bell tolled, the wind blew the 
incense and candles into fantastic shapes, 
the priests chanted, and the Prince del 
Giglio, great nobleman and eminent citi- 
zen, was borne to his rest. 

Celia saw the funeral cortege mount the 
steps of the chapel, and for a moment a 
bier, completely covered and concealed 
with white flowers, was revealed to her en- 
tering the door. It was all she would ever 
behold of the Prince del Giglio in this 
world. Awed by the solemn beauty of the 
scene, already shrouded in evening shadows, 
the girl drew a long breath, which was al- 
most a sob. Then her glance fell on the 
young man beside the wheel, who was re- 
garding her with a curious intentness. 

He was a youth of about twenty years, 
tall, large, with a certain easy grace of car- 


61 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

riage, and a smooth face of an unmistak- 
able Anglo - Saxon type. The sole charm 
of this face, with its massive, irregular feat- 
ures, was the eye, which possessed a power 
of magnetism unknown to its owner — pierc- 
ing, brilliant, and steady — an eye to read 
the depths of souls at a glance, and to con- 
trol, command them. 

Mrs. Bayard was astonished to behold 
Celia descend to the ground and stand be- 
side this stranger. 

“ I have seen you before,” murmured the 
girl, with a troubled aspect. “Tell me 
about this Prince del Giglio.” 

A sudden wave of color swept over the 
young man’s expressive features. The fu- 
neral did not touch him in the least. 

“We have met before, but it is not pos- 
sible you can recall it,” he replied, frankly, 
and with undisguised pleasure. 

“No, I cannot recall the meeting,” said 
Celia, simply, her glance wandering to the 
chapel door. 

“You once asked me if I was afraid to 
look at Neliemiah Methley in his shroud,” 
pursued the young man, studying keenly 
the fair, soft face of the girl, whom he 
found unchanged. 

Celia uttered a little cry. 

“And I was afraid and ran away,” she 
supplemented. “ You were the undertaker’s 
boy.” 

“ No.” 

“ Who were you, then ?” 

“ Ah ! a poor boy of the village.” 

“ Now you live here, instead. How 
strange !” 

“ I am an art student,” after a little pause. 

“ You paint pictures ?” 

“ No ; I wish to be a sculptor.” 

“ Then we may visit your studio some 
day, may we not ?” 

The young man looked at her with un- 
speakable gratitude. Celia’s lips had un- 
consciously framed the first mention of 
himself in his proper sphere : she had ask- 
ed to be admitted to his studio. Subtle 
flattery to young genius ! 

“Who was this Prince del Giglio?” she 
pursued. 

“A nobleman of ancient lineage. Have 
you not visited his palace? No? I will 
show you the exterior if your coachman 
will follow me.” 

Celia hesitated. She could not invite the 
shabby young man to enter the carriage, 
and she shrunk from mortifying him by re- 
questing him to- climb on the box in the 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

capacity of cicerone. After a few moments 
more of conversation with him she sprung 
into the landau, and indicated this stran- 
ger to her mother, already mystified by her 
conduct. 

“ Celia !” admonished Mrs. Bayard, in her 
most severe tones. 

“ Oh, mamma, this is Mr. John Winter, 
of Herringville. Yes, we have met before. 
He is a sculptor now, and we are to visit 
his studio some day.” 

Mrs. Bayard stared at the shabby young 
man, and scarcely returned his greeting. 
He darted forward, the carriage rumbled 
after, and in a narrow street adjoining this 
square of the Duomo he paused, and point- 
ed to a palace, sombre, closed, and desolate. 

“ The Prince del Giglio lived here,” said 
John Winter, again raising his cap, but a 
trifle more stiffly this time, and vanished. 

“You must learn to be less impulsive, 
my child,” said Mrs. Bayard. 

Celia made no reply ; she was pale, silent, 
subdued. She seemed still to hear the 
boom of the great Duomo bell, and see the 
wavering line of colors marking the entry 
of the funeral cortege into the gloomy 
depths of the Misericordia Chapel. 

The Prince del Giglio was dead! The 
old people, his contemporaries, might sigh 
and shake their heads over the sad event, 
but the young would still laugh as if he 
had never been. 


CHAPTER III. 

GOSSIP. 

Mrs. Jefferson had not forgotten her 
own dinner-party. The memory of it ran- 
kled in her breast like a poisoned arrow. 
She rehearsed each blunder made with the 
anger of a hot-tempered woman ; and she 
pictured imaginary mockeries on the part 
of her guests, in departing, with all the in- 
tense resentment of a person whose social 
standing is much more precarious than oth- 
ers realize. She was determined to hold 
her ground, and, to achieve this, she was 
prepared to use her sharpest weapons of 
defence. None should be found in her 
hand, however; she left that to her neigh- 
bors. It was a satisfaction to be able to 
send away grumbling old Assunta at the 
end of the month. Friend Letitia’s last 
letter was left unanswered and unnoticed. 
How stupid Letitia had been ! Might not 


02 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


this Mrs. Bayard have proved a veritable 
golden carp in her fisher-net, after all the 
insignificant minnows, like Mrs. Hartwell, 
whom she had entertained ? 

Mrs. Jefferson regretted the circumstance 
of having so evidently offended this new 
arrival. The haughty bearing of Mrs. Bay- 
ard even inspired in her a sort of uncom- 
fortable respect. Where would it end ? She 
already beheld Mrs. Bayard established in 
a spacious apartment, and giving entertain- 
ments from which she would be excluded. 
All the world perceiving this would make 
comments. Mrs. Bayard would tell her own 
story in time, which would render her an- 
tagonist ridiculous. These people would 
be only too ready to laugh at her ! 

Mrs. Jefferson’s restless little black eyes 
flashed at the prospect. How could she pre- 
vent it ? The balance was heavily against 
herself, she confessed, at a first glance. Mrs. 
Bayard was rich, well dressed, with a pretty 
daughter, and would presumably contribute 
to the general amusement by parties and 
balls. When these favorable circumstances 
became apparent to all, she, Mrs. Jefferson, 
would go to the wall, simply because this 
stranger cherished for her a resentment. 
The lady sat before the w T ood-fire of her 
little salon pondering on this matter, which 
possessed for herself such vital interest. 

“ No !” she exclaimed aloud ; “ Mrs. Bay- 
ard shall not be received into society here 
unless presented by me.” 

She was vpry much excited while form- 
ing this decision. The indignation of Mrs. 
Bayard, when reviewing her own reception 
after the bishop’s dinner, was a mild emo- 
tion compared with the rancor and distrust 
she had inspired in her hostess. The con- 
flict of interest, the secret sources of fear, 
envy, and disappointment were all blend- 
ed in the wrath of Mrs. General Jefferson. 
She decided to drive away this rival who 
would have none of her aid. 

She was willing, nay, ardently zealous, to 
be useful to Mrs. Bayard, so that she learn- 
ed every nook of her premises, and knew 
more about her affairs than any other per- 
son. This role of oracle would have grati- 
fied her self-love, and enhanced her own 
importance. Under these circumstances, 
Mrs. Bayard w^ould have received fairest 
praises, and been launched by her new 
friend on tranquil waters. Mrs. Jefferson 
would have basked in the sunshine of her 
popularity, and it would have been gener- 
ally believed that the two ladies had been 


schoolmates, if not distantly connected. 
That embarrassment, at first perceptible 
when the bishop mentioned fihe army, had 
been faced bravely, and arranged in the 
thoughts of the general’s wife so as to for- 
ever set at rest any doubts in the mind of 
the widow of a brother officer. 

Now all was useless. The blow was a 
heavy one, because of those tempting 
glimpses beyond the barrier of existing cir- 
cumstances. If friend Letitia’s first letter 
had been delayed by a providential fall of 
snow on the Mont Cenis route ! If the sec- 
ond had been given wings to fly to the 
rescue ! If a fatal precipitation had not 
led to the invitation on so early an even- 
ing ! On the whole, Mrs. Jefferson was dis- 
posed to reflect that the bishop’s dinner- 
party would cost her dear. 

Her natural courage soon reasserted it- 
self, however. Proud of her own clever- 
ness in managing her neighbors, as indeed 
she had every reason to be, this malevolent 
schemer set about proving the boast made 
in her own meditations — that a would-be 
zealous friend can also prove a zealous en- 
emy. Mrs. Bayard would not receive her 
overtures of peace. Let her look to her- 
self! Above all, the old Count Carmine 
Guigione must not be allowed to cherish 
the idea that the lady was a person of im- 
portance, and one out of whom he could 
make anything. Mrs. Jefferson put the 
matter thus coarsely, but with a far shrewd- 
er perception of the Count Guigione than 
he possessed, at the moment, of herself. 

This tiny battle-field of a petty warfare, 
how did it differ from larger ones of na- 
tions and armies? This drop of ditch-wa- 
ter, seen under the magician’s microscope, 
how did it differ from the great ocean ? 

Then it was that Mrs. Jefferson issued 
invitations for her Thursday evening, men- 
tioned on the Via Maggio in the hope of 
its reaching the ear of Mrs. Bayard — a 
triumph somewhat marred by alarm at 
beholding mother and daughter emerging 
from the bric-a-brac shops to which she 
had not conducted them. Count Guigione 
must not fail to come to her little party, 
Mrs. Jefferson had insisted affably, and the 
gentleman had promised not to disappoint 
her. 

Mrs. Jefferson’s evening was more suc- 
cessful than her dinner-party had been. 
She had made a step in the right direction 
of public favor, but such success had not 
been her motive. She had invited all the 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

young people of her acquaintance with 
especial reference to their amusement, and 
to the exclusion of Celia Bayard. There 
were ices and loribons in abundance, not 
to mention a more substantial supper at 
midnight. There was a little dancing in 
the salle d manger , despite the prohibition 
of the landlord of the house on account of 
the floors, and a delightful programme of 
games, innocent but mirth -provoking, as 
well as much amateur singing and playing 
on the piano, to the entire satisfaction of 
the friends of the young aspirants. 

Miss Bevis-Smith stood in the door-way 
surveying the scene. Miss Bevis-Smith 
had been a wallflower at such parties for 
so many years that she always announced 
in advance that dancing gave her vertigo, 
and had learned to help herself at buffets 
with the adroit discrimination of a philos- 
opher. 

“ There are no strangers here,” she said 
to her hostess, as her pale blue eyes roved 
over the company. “ Were there not some 
ladies at the Hotel de la Paix ?” 

“ Yes,” replied Mrs. Jefferson. 

Miss Bevis-Smith coughed behind hei 
fan. 

“ I fancied they brought introductions to 
you, dear Mrs. Jefferson,” she pursued, art- 
lessly. 

“Yes,” said Mi-s. Jefferson again, and in 
the same impressive tone, which conveyed 
volumes. 

Miss Bevis-Smith pricked up her ears, as 
it were. 

“ They have left — gone on to Rome ?” she 
queried, looking eagerly at her hostess. 

“ Mrs. Hartwell has gone to Rome ; Mrs. 
Bayard remains in Florence,” said Mrs. 
Jefferson, with automatic precision of utter- 
ance. 

“ Dear me ! Mrs. Bayard remains,” mur- 
mured Miss Bevis-Smith ; and the name ac- 
quired a wholly new interest in her estima- 
tion. “ She is ill, perhaps, or her daughter ? 
She has a daughter, I am told.” 

Mrs. Jefferson smiled with an aspect of 
constraint and significance. 

“ I am not aware that either of the ladies 
is ill,” she replied, and moved away. 

Miss Bevis-Smith remained in the door- 
way, absorbed in her own meditations. Ev- 
idently there was something odd about 
these new people, and Mrs. Jefferson knew 
it. To divine and trace something “odd” 
in the lives and career of others had be- 
come the diversion of Miss Bevis-Smith’s 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 63 

otherwise meagre existence. Soon Mrs. 
Jefferson returned swiftly to her side. 

“ Do come and take breakfast with me 
to-morrow at one o’clock !” she urged, with 
cordiality. “ It is an age since we had a 
little chat together. Yes, and bring Bijou. 
I will have some biscuit and cream for the 
darling.” 

Miss Bevis-Smith colored with pleasure 
to the roots of her sandy hair at the allu- 
sion to her dog. She was a gentlewoman 
with much pride in her family and con- 
nections, but her invitations out to break- 
fast were becoming few with the lapse of 
years. 

How to describe the charming gayety of 
the Count Guigione ! Mrs. Jefferson had 
but uttered the flattering truth when she 
stated that the young people could not do 
without him. He played games with the 
pleasure of a child ; he danced a quadrille 
with his hostess; he even performed some 
tricks with the skill of a true wizard — ma- 
nipulating the cards in his plump fingers, 
with rosy, well - kept nails, to the entire 
mystification of the company. If the count 
missed and noticed the absence off Mrs. 
Bayard’s gray satin robe and Celia’s pink 
draperies, he concealed the circumstance 
even from the vigilant suspicions of Mrs. 
Jefferson. 

Miss Bevis-Smitli returned to her abode 
a prey to lively and pleasurable emotions. 
She was a tall, thin person, of uncertain age, 
of a uniform sandy tint, with a low brow, 
pale blue eyes, large nose, and larger mouth, 
garnished with fine teeth. Alone in the 
world, this lady had left the English home 
in which she had been reared and selected 
Italy as a residence — a land where a very 
modest purse obtained for her more pleas- 
ure than elsewhere. In Italy the exile does 
not pay for the glorious sunshine, the beau- 
ties of earth and sky, the life and variety 
of street scenes, the harmonious aspect of 
churches and palaces. Miss Bevis-Smith, 
her gown gathered up without dread of re- 
vealing a pair of serviceable feet encased 
in long flat boots, and with her dog under 
her arm, enjoyed the privilege of exploring 
this kingdom. Accordingly she was a fa- 
miliar object, from the heights of Sorrento 
and the sheltered nooks of Castellamare to 
the Galleria of Milan and the limpid wave 
of Spezia. Everywhere she preserved her 
faith in her own gentility as the member 
of a good family, and never descended, in 
the scale of living, from the table-d'hotc of 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE ; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


G4 

a hotel to that of a pension. The line was 
strongly marked for Miss Bevis- Smith in 
this matter. She flitted from one hotel- 
pension to another, winter and summer, 
driving hard bargains with the proprietors, 
accommodating herself in tiny chambers be- 
neath the roof, and moving on in advance 
of a more expensive season. Florence had 
become her winter residence. 

The following day she prepared to keep 
her engagement to breakfast with Mrs. Jef- 
ferson by making the toilet of her pet poo- 
dle, Bijou, at an early hour. 

The affections of this lonely woman were 
centred on her sagacious little dog. Where 
Miss Bevis-Smith journeyed, there journey- 
ed Bijou also, accepting food from her hand 
alone, sleeping on the foot of her bed, 
smuggled into railway-carriages in a bas- 
ket, and discriminating between the boot 
of friendship and that of sly enmity, on 
such a highway of experience as the hotel 
staircase, with the finest canine sagacity. 
Bijou fawned on the old lady with a pri- 
vate salon with deceitful blandness, and 
either trotted away if caressed by the third 
and fourth floors, or submitted to the atten- 
tion with the abstracted aspect of a dog 
with business elsewhere. 

Having combed the fleecy wool of the 
poodle until he resembled a snowy ball, 
tied a blue ribbon with a tiny bell attached 
about his neck, and bestowed a kiss on 
the tip of his nose, Miss Bevis-Smith put 
some finishing - touches to her own attire, 
tucked Biiou under one arm, and strode 
forth. 

On the Arno bank a carriage passed her 
occupied by Mrs. Bayard and her daugh- 
ter. The pedestrian scrutinized these stran- 
gers with a fresh interest: Mrs. Jefferson 
intended to tell her something about them, 
she was confident. When one beholds the 
rich, on w T hom courteous attention will be 
lavished by a world which ignores one’s self, 
there is a certain solace in criticism and de- 
preciation. Miss Bevis-Smith felt that such 
discussion awaited her at Mrs. Jefferson’s 
breakfast- table. Her curiosity was awa- 
kened: evidently the lady whom she had 
known for some years, and w’ho had ever 
treated her politely, needed a confidante, and 
had selected herself. 

An hour later the sun shone into the win- 
dow of the little Pompeian dining-room on 
the two friends, who, amidst such cheerful 
surroundings, presented none of the sinis- 
ter aspect of conspirators plotting mischief 


against their fellow T -creatures. Nor could 
the most severe listener have discovered 
more than the merest gossip in their con- 
versation. 

Mrs. Jefferson pressed her guest to par- 
take of fillet of beef with mushrooms, while 
touching lightly in allusion on the latest 
local scandal of fraud in municipal matters. 
Miss Bevis-Smith replenished Mrs. Jeffer- 
son’s glass with Chablis while detailing, 
with much apparent satisfaction, the inter- 
esting particulars of the defection of a Ro- 
man noble on learning the true financial 
condition of the family of his fiancee, a belle 
of Baltimore. Then both ladies rolled up 
their eyes over the shocking levity of Ital- 
ian married women. 

Bijou occupied, as a post of honor, a 
cushion on the floor, and from time to time 
received a titbit which he anxiously await- 
ed, with his right ear cocked hopefully and 
his head held on one side. 

Mrs. Jefferson had no confidence to im- 
part to her friend. She desired to show 
Miss Bevis-Smith, who was a connoisseur, a 
fragment of church lace from a priest’s robe 
which she had recently purchased. Miss 
Bevis - Smith could actually discover no 
other mesh woven for herself besides these 
yellow and fragile threads of the lace, wdiich 
she peered at through her eye-glass, and 
pronounced genuine beyond the possibility 
of a doubt. She was vaguely disappointed. 
She had anticipated a revelation which 
w 7 ould make herself doubly welcome at ev- 
ery afternoon tea-party for the season. Mrs. 
Jefferson was awaiting a favorable moment 
when the coffee was served and Giuseppe 
had withdrawn: thus reasoned Miss Bevis- 
Smith, with curiosity and impatience, in- 
creased by delay. But the hostess allowed 
the favorable moment to arrive without 
availing herself of it for the interchange 
of feminine confidence. 

“ I saw that Mrs. Bayard, with her daugh- 
ter, on the Arno this morning,” said Miss 
Bevis-Smith, ' blinking at her companion 
with her white eyelashes. 

“Ah!” Mrs. Jefferson sipped her coffee 
with a thoughtful aspect. 

“ Do they not go out at all ?” pursued the 
guest. 

“ Not at all,” replied Mrs. Jefferson, with 
gentle dignity. 

“ It must be dull for the girl,” hazarded 
Miss Bevis-Smith. “ She is really pretty; but 
what a pity she has the bold air so charac- 
teristic of American young girls ! Y ou will 


65 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

pardon me, dear Mrs. Jefferson ; I am quite 
sure you must have often observed it for 
yourself.” 

Mrs. Jefferson did not resent this attack 
on the American girl ; she even nodded her 
head as if in approval of the sentiment, 
opened her lips to speak with a most un- 
usual expression of indecision, and closed 
them again resolutely. Her guest watched 
her with the most lively anxiety : the mo- 
ment for the story of Mrs. Bayard had ar- 
rived — no 1 

“Doubtless the daughter will find it 
dull,” replied Mrs. Jefferson, looking ab- 
stractedly into the depths . of her coffee- 
cup. 

“ Will they not attempt to enter our so- 
ciety ?” demanded Miss Be vis-Smith, breath- 
lessly. 

“ I think not. Certainly I shall not in- 
vite them here again,” said the hostess, 
dryly. 

“ This Mrs. Bayard brought a letter of 
introduction to you ?” pursued the other, 
opening her eyes in profound astonish- 
ment. 

“Yes, I had them here after the dear 
bishop had dined with me. I could not do 
less than that. I shall not repeat it. As 
to going into society, my dear Miss Bevis- 
Smith, any person can do that, you know, 
through a banker, or a consul, or by leaving 
cards.” 

Miss Bevis- Smith nodded her head in 
turn ; she would not interrupt her hostess 
by a word which might deprive her of that 
which she thirsted to learn. Evidently here 
was a delicious mystery, a secret known 
only to Mrs. General Jefferson, whose ac- 
quaintance was such an extensive one in 
her own land. 

“ Mark my words : Mrs. Bayard will not 
remain in Florence. She will seek anoth- 
er field.” 

Mrs. Jefferson rested her arms on the ta- 
ble, and looked at her visitor steadily in 
uttering these words. 

“ Dear me !” ejaculated Miss Bevis-Smith, 
in consternation. 

Then Mrs. Jefferson leaned back in her 
chair, and burst into a fit of uncontrollable 
laughter. 

“When I reflect who these people actu- 
ally are !” she gasped, with a fresh peal of 
merriment, pressing her handkerchief over 
her mouth. “Pray pardon me, dear Miss 
Bevis-Smith, but I cannot refrain from 
laughing.” 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

“Are they impostors?” inquired the lis- 
tener, in a whisper. 

“Oh, they are rich enough,” said Mrs. 
Jefferson, recovering her gravity. “ I dare 
say Mrs. Bayard could display handfuls of 
jewellery and all that. A few of us in 
America still have old-fashioned preju- 
dices about the acquisition of money, how- 
ever, and I confess that I belong to this 
minority.” 

Mrs. Jefferson here trod, with one of her 
large plump feet, on the little white paw 
of the poodle, making him howl with pain. 

“ If there is anything to tell, I am very 
discreet. I will not mention it to any per- 
son. One does like to know a little about 
the people one meets. Fancy ! This Mrs. 
Bayard may push her way even into the 
salon of Lady Brown. I think it would be 
only right to warn her ladyship, as I have 
known her so many years,” said Miss Bevis- 
Smith, excitedly, chafing the injured paw 
of her dog gently as she spoke. 

Mrs. Jefferson remained silent for a mo- 
ment, then rose from the table. 

“ Not another word, my dear Miss Bevis- 
Smith; I have nothing to tell, I assure 
you,” she said' her face expressing unutter- 
able intelligence the while. 

Then Miss Bevis-Smith departed, and 
Bijou was allowed to trot along at her 
side, guided by a string. 

According to Confucius, slander soaks 
into the mind as water into low and 
marshy places, where it becomes stagnant 
and offensive. 

Mrs. Jefferson’s little breakfast bore more 
immediate fruit than either her dinner- 
party or Thursday evening. The strangers 
of the H6tel de la Paix, who drove about 
in a landau, began to be regarded with 
a speculative interest which they would 
not otherwise have inspired as mere trav- 
ellers visiting the city. It came to be un- 
derstood that they were people with a past 
history more or less clouded. Conjecture, 
curiosity, malice, were each free to build 
any cloud - structure of falsehood about 
them, simply because there were no oppos- 
ing measures of refutation employed. They 
lived at a hotel; therefore public opinion 
could not balance and decide on their 
ideas of an establishment, or how much 
they would serve their fellow- creatures. 
They had no acquaintances ; therefore the 
field belonged to the resident, Mrs. Jeffer- 
son, who, spurred by active enmity, desired 
to render their reception, should they at- 


5 


/ 


66 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

tempt forming any, sufficiently cool and 
doubtful to make them abandon the at- 
tempt and seek Rome, where their entree 
into society might be more fortunate than 
at her own house. 

Mrs. Bayard, unconscious of the mock- 
ery to be read in many eyes on the street, 
received complacently this homage of at- 
tention. How was it possible for the poor 
lady to appreciate that she was the subject 
of gossip and suspicion ? What could the 
most evil-tongued find to say about her- 
self or her position? She was neither sat- 
isfied nor comfortable, and the project of 
journeying on to Rome — suggested by 
the enemy — was taking form daily in her 
mind. Her first attempt at going into so- 
ciety had been unfortunate. She bounded 
with indignation when the thought of 
Mrs. Jefferson’s cold salon recurred to her, 
and she shrunk from hazarding another ex- 
periment of the same sort. If all the An- 
glo-American colony w T ere equally ill-bred, 
slighting, and disagreeable as this woman, 
surely one might prefer to avoid them. 

Thus Mrs. Bayard was drifting helpless- 
ly through mid- winter into spring, very 
much bored, and each week setting the 
next as the limit of her stay in Florence. 
Celia had discovered a new interest, which 
charmed her and detained her mother. 

Miss Bevis-Smitli had gone forth from 
the presence of Mrs. Jefferson not bound to 
secrecy, for no secret had been confided to 
her, but free to tell all she had gleaned, 
and to hazard her own conjectures on these 
new people. The poor and unloved old 
maid, tolerated by a few at the afternoon 
tea-urn, snubbed by many, armed only with 
her little budget of latest news, felt that 
she would gain importance if able to 
launch another arrow, tipped with venom, 
at a fresh specimen of the “American 
abroad.” If Mrs. Bayard was genteel in 
appearance, at least her education might 
be defective. If she possessed boundless 
wealth, at least her money might be the 
crudest ore, just wrenched from a new vein, 
or the fountain have received tribute from 
the most ignoble sources of cities. Justice 
must be done this emissary of Mrs. Jeffer- 
son. After the conjectures of Miss Bevis- 
Smitli had been launched in the second 
apartment visited by her, and had filtered 
through the company present, she would 
have been unable to recognize her own 
story. 

As for Mrs. Bayard, the object of these 



; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

rumors hovering in the air and gathering 
form in every mouth, she would have lis- 
tened to her own history over a cup of tea 
— if her name was not given — with truly 
feminine interest, and disapprobation of the 
person described. Nor would it have ever 
dawned on her intelligence that this lady 
could possibly inhabit the same circle of 
life as herself. 

These foreign colonies in old Continental 
cities, composed of the most incongruous 
and uncongenial elements, subject to con- 
stant change — the resident of yesterday 
gone to-day and replaced to-morrow by a 
fresh arrival, with always the bitter under- 
current of a common sentiment of exile — 
forever play in their association the child’s 
game of “ telling the news.” The statement 
received by one extremity of the circle, in 
passing to the next becomes distorted, en- 
larged, or wilfully perverted ; and when ut- 
tered aloud by the last speaker, seldom pos- 
sesses a name, a date, a trace of the original 
matter. Thus the fiction of Mrs. Bayard’s 
story received a fresh addition of fantastic 
trimming to its harlequin dress in each 
salon where it was repeated, and finally 
emerged a more gayly - colored garment 
than Mrs. Jefferson could have hoped. 

The fact became clear as crystal to those 
persons on whom the stranger had left no 
cards, or to whom she had not attempted 
to gain access by any of the ordinary chan- 
nels, that she feared being recognized at 
her true value. As for Mrs. Jefferson, she 
said nothing, smiled often, and did not at- 
tempt to refute rumor. Her extraordinary 
reticence possessed far more weight than 
her most biting sarcasm or cruel mimicry 
had ever done. She followed up the ad- 
vantage gained by a month of receptions. 
Every Thursday afternoon Mrs. Jefferson 
was at home — as the cards showered about 
in all directions indicated — and was pre- 
pared to receive her friends with the aid 
of tea, coffee, chocolate, cakes, and jel- 
lies. 

At these receptions the hostess was es- 
pecially attentive to a German baroness of 
very equivocal reputation, retired from the 
stage. Mrs. Jefferson boldly took this 
much - calumniated old lady by the hand, 
as it were, and presented her to the world. 

“ I do not believe one word that is said 
about her here,” she remarked to Miss Bevis- 
Smith, with indignation. People are so un- 
charitable ! Because a woman has been a 
great beauty in her day, and princes and 


67 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

grand-dukes have fallen in love with her 
by the score, she must be unmercifully criti- 
cised in her old age.” 

Then Mrs. Jefferson drove in the Cascine 
with the German baroness, whose equipage 
was certainly a very fine one, her expression 
one of calm defiance to the envious and un- 
just censures of her neighbors. If the lady 
was thus tolerant of the baroness, what 
must have been her reasons for ignoring 
one who came furnished with a letter of 
introduction to herself? 


CHAPTER IY. 
joiin winter’s model. 

The outer door of the old sculptor’s stu- 
dio stood half open, as if in anticipation of 
a visitor. Within, the place presented the 
same aspect as on that evening, five years 
before, when the cabin-boy John Winter 
had followed the master from Leghorn to 
this threshold. An Italian, with olive-tint- 
ed face and gray mustache, clad in blouse 
and white cap — true sculptor’s assistant — 
worked at a block of marble in the corner, 
which, in its obscure suggestiveness, resem- 
bled one of those shapes frozen by January 
out of the tailing spray of Niagara. The 
chipping of his chisel was the only sound 
in the large room, while voices became oc- 
casionally audible in an adjacent chamber. 
The shelves above his head still held casts 
of many varieties of types, the faces grave, 
stern, or merry, gazing down with a cer- 
tain wan ghQstliness, while plaster limbs 
drooped from nails in aimless fashion, and 
fragile hands seemed to grope and cling to 
the walls. These comprised the life-studies 
of the old sculptor, each telling its tale of 
careful delineation, discouragement, and un- 
flagging industry on his part. 

In the inner room John Winter stood 
near the window, his cheek flushed, his eye 
irresolute, in the attitude of waiting. Al- 
bert Dennis, fellow - student, sallow and 
weary from keeping late hours, crouched 
in the corner drawing a design, or feigning 
to do so, with an unsteady hand. Old 
Abraham Blackwood quitted his task, and 
patted John Winter on the shoulder. 

“Courage!” he said, kindly. 

He was not usually a demonstrative man. 
John turned quickly and looked at him. 

“ If she should fail to come 1” he groaned. 
“ It is my one chance.” 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

Albert Dennis burst into a spiteful laugh, 
which relieved his own nerves. 

“Fine ladies do not always keep their 
word,” he giggled. 

Abraham Blackwood frowned. 

“ She will come,” he rejoined. “ Vanity 
will bring a woman, for a first sitting, at 
least, to have her own portrait taken. You 
are advancing in the right direction, my 
boy. Succeed with this study, and you will 
obtain orders. If need be, I will give a 
touch or so to your work.” 

“ I do not wish your assistance,” retorted 
John Winter, with a brusqueness of tone 
which he may have acquired from years of 
association with the old sculptor. “If I 
cannot make this head alone and unaided, 
it shall remain a failure.” 

The master chuckled. 

“We are very ambitious this fine morn- 
ing! Take care that our wings do not 
prove wax, and melt in the first fiery trial 
of a bright sunshine.” 

John Winter’s face clouded, but his nos- 
tril expanded. He held out his hand to 
the old sculptor, then withdrew it as swift- 
ly, and went out into the other room with 
a firm step. Abraham Blackwood walked 
up and down his sanctum several times in 
silence, then paused before Albert Dennis, 
still crouching in the corner over his leaf 
of paper. 

“ Look here, Albert, why don’t you drop 
this farce- and quit the shop ?” he demand- 
ed, in a hard, abrupt tone, his expressive 
face gathering ominous quivers of emotion. 

Albert Dennis pushed back the curls 
from his damp forehead. 

“ That is always the way !” he retorted, 
in an excited manner, and in the chirping 
tone of a sparrow that hops near and defies 
the mastiff in his kennel: “all for John 
Winter, and nothing for me !” 

The old sculptor strode again up and 
down the narrow space of paved floor. He 
was a just man; he dreaded measuring out 
injustice now. 

“I have given you a chance; what can 
you do? You do not possess the talent of 
little Beppo,who chips at thirty centimes a 
day, learning the trade of marble -cutter. 
Is it my fault that you are a straw, without 
pith or substance ?” 

The young man’s face flushed an angry 
crimson, a moisture dimmed his eye. 

“Try me to the end of the year,” he 
murmured, gnawing his lip. 

The old sculptor shrugged his shoulders. 


G8 A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

“ So be it,” he replied, in his usual tones 
of mocking good-humor. “ I advise you to 
enter a shop — to marry an heiress — to turn 
dancing-master. If you do not adopt one 
of these alternatives, you will become a 
charlatan, a rogue, an impostor. Do you 
hear?” 

Albert Dennis pierced the paper before 
him with the sharp point of his pencil, and 
did not reply. Suddenly the master paused, 
as if a dark suspicion had flashed through 
his brain. He approached the youth in the 
corner, and bent over him with flashing 
eyes. 

“ How did you dare to dream of ever be- 
coming a sculptor ?” 

The high-priest of an altar, whose sacred 
limits he was prepared to defend with his 
life, might thus address a sacrilegious in- 
truder. For a moment Albert Dennis cow- 
ered beneath this overwhelming scorn ; then 
his head was again raised, and his glance 
turned uneasily toward the door. 

“ I hear voices,” he said, in a sulky tone. 
“John Winter’s model must have arrived.” 

The old sculptor went out, closing the 
door. Left alone, Albert Dennis indulged 
in one of those senseless rages peculiar to 
weak natures. He beat his head against 
the wall, he clinched his fist at the door, 
several tears escaped down his cheeks, and 
he tore the sketch he was making into 
shreds. Calmed by these demonstrations, 
there succeeded a most lively curiosity to 
criticise the new subject. Albert Dennis 
escaped through the window, and made his 
way to a favorable place for espionage back 
of the building. It was eminently charac- 
teristic of this youth to prefer stepping 
through windows instead of availing him- 
self of doors. 

Celia Bayard had promised to visit the 
studio of John Winter on the evening of 
the Prince del Giglio’s funeral, when he 
had shown her the sombre old palace 
where that nobleman had lived. A month 
elapsed before she fulfilled the promise. 
Mrs. Bayard interposed delays and indulged 
in nervous headaches, owing to the damp 
weather, until Celia had nearly forgotten 
the matter, when an incident occurred to 
remind her of her broken word. She had 
paused before a shop-window on the Arno 
filled with the graceful statuettes in mar- 
ble, and alabaster copies of great works. 

“ Oh, the young sculptor ! — what must he 
think of us ?” exclaimed Celia, in a tone of 
contrition. 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

“Yes, we can visit his studio to-mor“ 
row,” said Mrs. Bayard, vaguely. 

The thought that Celia had met this 
youth in the old homestead of Nehemiah 
Methley at Herringville, at the time of the 
latter’s death, was unpleasant, even painful 
to her. She would prefer not to be re- 
minded of it by even seeing the young 
sculptor again. 

“Let us go to-day !” cried Celia, resolute- 
ly. “Perhaps he has been disappointed.” 

John Winter had indeed been disap- 
pointed. He had watched, waited, hoped, 
in silence and in vain. He was still a stu- 
dent in the old sculptor’s studio, but Celia 
had severed by a word one of the thongs 
of bondage. What did he anticipate ? 
Everything, and nothing ! The weeks had 
elapsed, and she did not come. The cup 
had been dashed from his lips, and he was 
left a prey to bitter dejection. Albert 
Dennis watched him maliciously. The old 
sculptor said little. 

Sometimes he sought the Arno’s bank, 
when the gaslights twinkled like little 
stars on both shores and the bridges, to 
gaze steadfastly at the windows of Mrs. 
Bayard’s rooms in the hotel. Again he 
met their carriage in the street, and instead 
of reminding them of. his existence by fac- 
ing them, turned swiftly aside in a dark 
passage or beneath an archway, flushing 
with anger at his own weakness, with a 
keen sense of humiliation. A young artist 
builds a world of hope from a w r ord of 
praise, a careless glance of seeming appre- 
ciation, because of his need of such com- 
mendation. 

Celia came, dragging her reluctant moth- 
er, and the carriage paused long before the 
studio of old Abraham Blackwood. The 
young girl won favor with all, even the 
olive- skinned Andrea, chipping monoto- 
nously at his marble block. The old sculp- 
tor observed her with a lenient smile as 
she flitted from room to room, now paus- 
ing to admire a model of Eve awakening 
to life, now studying Sleep, or Death sink- 
ing back, with relaxed limbs and closed 
eyelids, to the oblivion of perfect rest. 

Albert Dennis glibly explained all sub- 
jects to her understanding with the most 
gallant manner, while John Winter remain- 
ed shy, silent, and awkward. Mrs. Bayard 
found the visit less irksome than she had 
anticipated; for the master received her 
with courtesy, and afterward charmed her 
with his conversation, as he did all brought 


69 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

in contact with himself. She even listen- 
ed without disapproval to Celia, aware of 
the drift of the girl’s meditations. Celia 
■would have liked to prove on earth a sort 
of little providence to penetrate the secret 
w T ish of each person she met, and gratify it 
at the instant. She believed this to be the 
delightful role assigned her by destiny, in 
giving into her small palm the purse of 
old Nehemiah Methley. 

Accordingly she smiled on Albert Den- 
nis, while her thoughts -were concentrated 
on John Winter. 

“Have you ever taken portrait busts?” 
she inquired, suddenly. 

“A few, as studies,” said John, modestly. 

“Will you show them to me, please? 
Mamma, come and see Mr. Winter’s por- 
trait busts.” 

Mrs. Bayard did not heed the request; 
she was listening to the old sculptor. 
Even Albert Dennis turned on his heel in 
undisguised petulance. John’s collection 
was concealed behind a curtain of the out- 
er room, where he worked, and comprised 
the usual studies of a student in detached 
limbs and sketches. A plaster cast of the 
Princess Margherita — the sweet face so fa- 
miliar in Italy — several ugly and charac- 
teristic heads of old men, and one of the 
brilliant, laughing faces of Italian child- 
hood, were grouped on a shelf, embodying 
consecutive effort on his part. Celia con- 
templated these in silence for a time ; then 
she inquired, 

“Would you like to take my portrait?” 

John Winter bent on her one of those 
profound contemplative glances in which 
a sculptor forgets the individuality of the 
object beheld. The color deepened in 
Celia’s cheek ; she averted her head with 
a sense of embarrassment; yet she was 
not displeased. She found in the young 
man’s regard only the subtle flattery of ad- 
miration for her own beauty. 

“ I should like to try,” he replied, slowly. 

“ Try, then,” returned Celia, blithely ; “ I 
will come for a first sitting next week. 
What fun it will be to watch you at work ! 
Yes, and the bust shall be done in marble, 
and afterward mamma shall buy it — oh, 
for ever so much money, and that will 
make your fortune !” 

John Winter smiled with eyes and mouth 
his deep gratitude, his profound delight in 
the task assigned him. The patronage of 
Celia was a feather’s weight of obligation, 
easily borne. He would gladly receive 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

money from her little hand — this youth, 
reared in the pride and isolated indepen- 
dence of the old sculptor’s creed. How 
many times this pretty picture was des- 
tined to recur to his memory in later years ! 
He saw again the daughter of Mrs. Bayard, 
in her wide Gainsborough hat with the 
drooping plume, contemplating his work, 
and heard her voice, like the chimes of a 
fading but oft-repeated cadence : 

“Mamma shall buy the bust — oh, for 
ever so much money, and that will make 
your fortune !” 

Patronage, that angel of deliverance, 
pouring her precious oil into the scarcely 
kindled lamp, as well as reilluminating the 
expiring one, thus came to John Winter 
in the Gainsborough hat and the garb of 
youth. Like all dreamy natures, he felt a 
thrill of superstition in the circumstance. 
Celia’s face, asleep, had been the first he had . 
ever noticed; it had fascinated him, and 
held him spellbound outside the window 
on a rainy night years ago. Now she came 
to him of her own volition, and bade him 
do his best to stamp the impress of her 
features on marble. Was there not some- 
thing well-nigh miraculous in the event ? 

Celia, scarcely less interested in the pro- 
jected work, had kept her word, and the 
day for the sitting — so memorable to John 
Winter as the opening of a career — had 
arrived. 

Mrs. Bayard’s indecision had given place 
to a determination to depart for Rome on 
this Wednesday. Yes, she would leave this 
dismal Florence, with its w T eeping skies and 
deserted streets, for the inexhaustible splen- 
dors of the Eternal City. She hoped that 
she might never again see the muddy Arno, 
the misty heights of Bellosguardo, with the 
Monte Oliveto beyond, or hear mentioned 
the name of Mrs. General Jefferson, whose 
husband never had belonged to the regular 
army, she was daily more convinced. 

Celia reminded her mother of the pro- 
posed bust. Were there not sculptors enough 
at Rome to make portraits by the dozen, if 
required ? Mrs. Bayard had rejoined. 

John Winter’s little fleet of glass bubbles 
was very near shipwreck on the cruel rocks 
of Mrs. Bayard’s discontent, when Celia di- 
verted them again into a safe mid-channel 
by means of her own preference, and the 
fragile hopes, rainbow-tinted, danced gayly 
on to safer waters. There would be time 
enough to journey on to Rome after the 
bust was finished. That sarcastic conjecL 


70 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

ure of the old sculptor was not unfounded : 
feminine vanity led Celia to keep her ap- 
pointment, if no other consideration. 

Albert Dennis had crept stealthily around 
the back of the building, pulled open a 
shutter, already unfastened to admit light, 
entered this second window, and gained a 
safe hiding-place behind a wooden case, 
from whence he could observe at leisure all 
that transpired in the corner partitioned 
off by a curtain, which formed John Win- 
ter’s atelier. He had not been given the 
chance to study a beautiful girl. No doubt 
the old sculptor, in his crabbed and surly 
intolerance of all rising genius, doubted his 
capacity to do so ! 

The model was seated where the light 
fell full upon her, and turned her head from 
side to side in obedience to the suggestions 
of Abraham Blackwood, while Mrs. Bayard 
stood behind, smilingly observant of de- 
tails, and for the first time really interested 
in John Winter, because he was attempting 
to do justice to the loveliness \>f her child. 
Celia, with the coquetry prophesied by the 
sagacious old sculptor, wore a lavender cos- 
tume, admirably calculated to enhance the 
fairness of her complexion, little gold ban- 
gles slid on licr wrists ; the tip of a French 
shoe became visible from time to time, and 
her golden hair had been arranged by 
Theresa with infinite care, in a multitude 
of tiny puffs and coils. 

John Winter surveyed this coiffure with 
a severe and dissatisfied eye. 

“Now, do your best,” said the old sculp- 
tor, gayly, after inspecting the model for 
the last time. “ Allow me to show you my 
collection of coins and minerals, madame. 
As for yourself, mademoiselle, do not per- 
mit this brave fellow to weary you too 
much. He would retain you nailed to your 
post for twenty-four hours, if allowed to do 
so, and forget that you were made of flesh 
and blood.” 

John Winter cast a grateful and affec- 
tionate look at his master, who was leading 
Mrs. Baj^ard away for a moment, to leave 
him undisturbed. In his nervous excite- 
ment, he felt that the curious inspection of 
the lady through her eye-glass would ren- 
der his trembling fingers still more un- 
steady. 

Celia sat with the daylight falling full on 
her golden head and pretty face, with the 
delicate features characteristic of the Amer- 
ican woman; the nose small and straight, 
with flexible nostrils; the mouth arched, 


j OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

rosy, and full ; the chin also of the national 
type — longer and more pointed than that 
of other races ; the skin fair, transparent, a 
trifle too pale for robust health. This face, 
apart from a severe regularity of beauty, 
possessed the additional charm of childish 
mobility; the large eyes, gray in color, 
darkened to a velvet blackness in the dila- 
tion of pupil occasioned by excitement, or 
flashed with the merriest smiles. The ha- 
bitual expression of Celia’s eyes was one of 
surprise, curiously blended with a pensive 
contemplation. 

This was the subject placed before John 
Winter — at once his delight and despair. 
How could he hope to catch the sudden 
and sweet smile that rippled over the sensi- 
tive lips, the shadowy gravity lurking in 
the gray eyes, the succeeding arch awa- 
kened animation of every feature, thrilled 
by a fresh thought ? Above all, what an 
ineffective medium seemed cold, gray clay 
for reproduction of the light of goldeu hair, 
the sweep of a lavender robe, the meshes 
of lace encircling a small, well-rounded 
throat ! John Winter was dazzled, con- 
founded at his own audacity in attempting 
the task before him. Possibly the old 
sculptor would have found himself incapa- 
ble of spiritualizing this bewitching and 
baffling face. The young blood coursed 
more rapidly through his veins, his heart 
beat with fuller throbs of expectation or 
hope ; he shaded his eyes with his hand. 

“ Could your hair be differently arranged 
next time ?” he inquired, timidly. 

Celia laughed. 

“ You dislike a fashionable coiffure ?” she 
said. “ How stupid of me not to remem- 
ber that a sculptor would require a classi- 
cal knot ! Wait one moment, and I will 
remedy the difficulty. You shall be my 
mirror.” 

With a reckless hand Celia destroyed the 
labor of Theresa on the top of her own 
head; a little shower of hair-pins rattled 
down on her shoulders, and with them a 
wealth of blonde hair. John Winter stood 
mute before her, lost in contemplation. Ce- 
lia looked at him from the cloud of hair, 
roguishly and with parted lips, evidently 
expecting the mirror chosen to reflect her 
beauty. Both were silent for a moment, 
and Albert Dennis, hidden behind the 
curtain, did not move. The monotonous 
chip, chip of Andrea’s chisel was audible, 
the mingled voices of Mrs. Bayard and the 
old sculptor became indistinct and distant, 


71 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


and through the open window came with 
the flood of sunshine the perfume of un- 
seen gardens, the scents of spring. 

A flush deepened the pink tint of the 
model’s cheek ; she bit her lip with annoy- 
ance ; her head took a more haughty poise, 
and she twisted her hair into the requisite 
coil with a defiant glance, which said plainly, 

“ I do not wish your admiration.” 

The sculptor began to work. Celia’s 
mood changed. 

“Must I remain silent, as if frozen for a 
photograph ?” she demanded. 

“ Certainly not,” replied John Winter, 
his hands already manipulating the clay. 

Another silence ensued. 

“ What decided you to become a sculp- 
tor — a village boy of Herringville ?” asked 
Celia, musingly. 

“ I did not decide ; I was led,” said John 
Winter, in his usual cheerful tone of voice. 
“ Will you laugh if I tell you that I saw 
my first statue in the bed of the brook at 
home, and in my ignorance christened it a 
snow- woman ? Ah, I have lived to see the 
works of the Bargello and the Ufiizi since 
then !” 

Celia listened with dilating eyes, and 
that intuitive sympathy which leads the 
most reticent and proud soul to speak of 
itself, even to confide its aspirations. The 
look of surprise and pensive contemplation 
returned to her face and overshadowed it. 
Gradually she passed under the spell of 
John Winter’s individuality. She gazed at 
life through his medium of vision ; she en- 
tered the Temple of Art, to which he and 
the old sculptor had dedicated their man- 
hood, awed, puzzled, but not dismayed by 
her own incapacity to grasp the meaning 
of its laws and harmonies. 

Such was the temperament of this young 
girl : she took coloring; from the atmos- 
phere surrounding her at the time. As 
she had not long occupied her own pres- 
ent position, she rehearsed the career of 
those she met, entered into their projects, 
as it were, and partook of their identity, as 
a lake surface mirrors the passing cloud. 
Honors de Balzac, walking along the Bou- 
levards at night behind the artisan and his 
family, not only listened to their hopes and 
fears, and shared the burden of the morrow’s 
rent, but felt that he actually stepped into 
their shoes. This versatility of thought or 
imagination may appertain to sensitive and 
weak natures, as well as to the most pow- 
erful ones. 


When Mrs. Bayard had returned, and 
yawned furtively behind her hand from 
time to time, the old sculptor inquired 
kindly if Celia was tired. 

“Not at all,” she replied, with sparkling 
eyes. 

Albert Dennis slid away noiselessly, gain- 
ed his own quarters, where he dressed him- 
self carefully, and sallied forth to make calls. 
This young man’s bearing was never more 
gay and mocking than on this occasion. 

The first sitting was satisfactory. Its 
freshness and novelty of interest had not 
vanished. 

“I believe you will succeed,” said Mrs. 
Bayard, affably, in taking leave. 

The lady was becoming imbued with the 
manifest interest, verging on enthusiasm, of 
her daughter. Would there not be a true 
satisfaction in proving the first patroness 
of a genius from Herringville ? John Win- 
ter bowed in silence. He was not demon- 
strative by nature, and possessed neither 
the gift of easy fluency of the old sculptor 
nor the ready glibness of speech of Albert 
Dennis. 

Celia approached Abraham Blackwood 
as she adjusted her hat, and regarded him 
meditatively. He returned the glance with 
his most lenient smile. 

“Perhaps he will become a great man, 
a famous sculptor,” she whispered, raising 
her finger. 

“Perhaps he may,” returned Abraham 
Blackwood, with an almost imperceptible 
shrug of the shoulders. 

Mrs. Bayard, when seated in her carriage, 
exclaimed, 

“I hope to goodness that young man, 
John Winter, may not fall in love with you, 
Celia ! How strangely he looked at you — 
as if he saw a ghost !” 

Celia tossed her head, and a dimple ap- 
peared at the corner of her mouth. 

“Suppose he cannot help it!” she re* 
joined, with the unconscious self-compla- 
cency of a petted child, accustomed to think 
aloud in the presence of an indulgent par- 
ent. 

“ It would be absurd !” said Mrs. Bayard, 
flushing with vexation. 

“Dear mamma, when the bust is finished 
w r e will go on to Rome,” rejoined Celia, de- 
murely, slipping her hand into that of her 
mother. 

Had John Winter realized all that the 
bust would cost his pretty model in the 
lavender gown, would his courage have 


72 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

sustained him to destroy the outline in clay, 
and scatter its dust to mingle with the de- 
Iris of the town, rather than form, with la- 
borious care, a mould henceforth precious 
to him ? 

Left alone with his pupil, the old sculp- 
tor scanned the work of the morning with- 
out disapproval, which was the nearest ap- 
proach to praise ever vouchsafed by him. 
Abraham Blackwood’s atelier was the fiery 
crucible in which the pure gold of true 
merit alone could withstand, in fusion, anni- 
hilation. Pretension, ambition, nay, trem- 
ulous youthful hope, were ground to invisi- 
ble atoms by his scorn, and dispersed like 
chaff to the winds. Injured ^elf-love oc- 
casionally survived to seek refuge else- 
where. 

Belonging to the ranks of the classical 
school, imbued with that contempt for all 
modern work peculiar to this creed, wholly 
intolerant of the word “ progress,” while un- 
nerving himself and others by the mourn- 
ful echo, “decadence,” the old sculptor 
reaped enmity on all sides, from critics 
whom he despised and fellow-artists whom 
he censured. These hostile ranks taxed 
him with never having achieved a great 
work to prove his superiority to other men. 
He gloried in his unpopularity, accepting 
it as a proof that he had pierced many a 
fraud with his lance in the tournament. 

He had received Albert Dennis into his 
studio the previous year, a prodigy of clev- 
erness, sure of future renown, in the opin- 
ion of his proud parents and friends at 
home. The airy buoyancy of temperament 
possessed by this youthful genius, and the 
interposition of sedate JohnWinter, at times, 
had thus far preserved him from the blight- 
ing fury of Abraham Blackwood’s disap- 
proval. 

“Yes, it is a beautiful face, a well-shaped 
heacl,” mused the old sculptor, before the 
study of Celia Bayard. “ Praxiteles would 
have bestowed it, idealized, on a first woman 
looking out on life with surprise and curi- 
osity. Polycletus would have given it to 
Psyche, to immortal youth. Phidias would 
have consecrated those deep eyes, that sen- 
sitive mouth, to eternal sorrow ; it is a face 
with endless capacity of suffering. You !” 
he added, with an abrupt change of tone — 
“ what will you do w T ith it ? Make a dan- 
cing fairy from this original study, or a 
modern peasant girl ?” 

John Winter winced, and compressed his 
lips. 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

“ I must try,” he muttered, mechanically. 
“A lifetime cannot be spent in study, es- 
pecially if one is poor and has bread to 
earn.” 

The old sculptor’s lips acquired their 
most sarcastic smile. 

“Try, as other men have done before 
you,” he said, bitterly. “Bread can be 
earned by making portraits ; fools in their 
vanity will always be found desirous of 
having their noses and ears perpetuated in 
marble. I have existed by this means. For 
the rest, create an Amazon like that of Kiss, 
and persuade the world that it differs from 
the bronze Amazon of Herculaneum, if you 
can. Model an Ariadne like Dannecker, and 
prove that she is not the girl mounted on 
the back of the chimera in the Pompeian 
fresco. We steal a little fire now and then 
from the high-altar of the gods, like the 
beggars we are, and fancy ourselves each a 
Prometheus.” « 

John Winter made a movement of impa- 
tience, his eye flashed. 

“ I must act ! I must work !” he cried, 
confronting the old sculptor boldly. “If 
we spent our lives in such desponding con- 
templation, comparing our age ever with 
the perfections of antiquity, nothing would 
be achieved in the world. For five years 
I have studied and imbibed the life about 
me. It is time that I did something.” 

“Become a mason, if your muscles re- 
quire exercise,” sneered the old man. 

John Winter reddened, and clinched his 
fist unconsciously. 

“Well, I will become a mason if I can 
build a wall stronger and better than my 
neighbors,” he replied, slowly. 

“ Oh, the egotism of youth !” groaned 
Abraham Blackwood. “Look, and remem- 
ber !” 

He pointed to a wood-cut framed on the 
wall. The wood-cut, one of those yellow 
leaves frequently found among collectors’ 
treasures in Continental cities, represented 
an old man in a wheel-chair. Beneath was 
inscribed in Latin, “ I still learn.” 

Left alone, John Winter seated himself 
before the clay model, veiled in its clamp 
cloth, and abandoned himself to reflection. 
Yes, Celia Bayard had severed the chains 
of his bondage, and he must act for him- 
self. Blessed years of servitude in which 
Florence, the Art mother, had nourished 
his starved soul and meagre frame, breath- 
ing upon all his senses a new life ! Bless- 
ed years of refuge in the studio of the old 


73 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

master, copying with intuitive quickness 
of perception the tasks assigned by riper 
judgment, or listening in silence to the 
exhortations of Abraham Blackwood. He 
earned a trifle by teaching the rudiments 
of drawing. Never before had pupil 
evinced sufficient courage and patience to 
remain for five years in this crucible. Nev- 
er before had the old sculptor, growing 
cynical and distrustful of human nature 
with advancing years, discovered disciple 
and companion in one. There had been 
days when he had bidden the former cab- 
in-boy go forth and seek a wider school 
for himself, and John Winter had returned 
pale with excited rapture, his eyes clouded 
from companionship with Giovanni di Bo- 
logna, or Luca della Robbia, in the Bar- 
gello; of Michael Angelo amidst the pow- 
erful and mournful groups of the Chapel 
of San Lorenzo ; of Donatello in the niches 
of the Church of Or’ San Michele. 

The sound of Andrea’s chisel ceased, the 
day waned, and still he sat there dreaming 
on, fighting some fierce battle with his own 
spirit. May not the gray walls of the stu- 
dio have receded, the veiled head on the 
pedestal vanished before him, and the 
shifting waters of the brook again reveal- 
ed the far-distant ideal, the snow-woman, 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

more pure in outline than the Parian mar- 
ble of the Greeks? As the hashish vo- 
tary beholds a face glorified through the 
medium of thought which colors all ob- 
jects with the gold and purple of unfold- 
ing flowers, may not John Winter have 
thus linked inseparably Celia Bayard with 
his early dream ? Every youth awaits his 
opportunity in expectation and revery, as 
Dean Swift, the penniless scholar at Trini- 
ty College, watched from his window the 
seaman crossing the court, bearer of a purse 
of silver from his cousin, the merchant. 

Abraham Blackwood entered the studio 
with a lamp in his hand. 

“ Are you asleep ?” he demanded, with a 
half smile on his lip. 

“No,” replied John Winter. 

“ Come ; it is already midnight, and you 
have eaten no supper,” urged the old sculp- 
tor. 

How many hours he had spent himself 
in such solitude, peopled only with the 
shapes of his own imagination ! John Win- 
ter rose, and followed him without utter- 
ing a word. 

At that hour Albert Dennis was waltz- 
ing at an improvised dancing-party, and 
had wholly forgotten his chagrin of the 
morning. 


BOOK III. 


THE SPRING-TIME 
CHAPTER I. 

HOLY THURSDAY. 

“This is Holy Thursday, mamma, and 
Theresa says all the world visits seven 
churches, at least, in penance for the sins 
of the past year.” 

Thus spoke Celia Bayard, again gazing 
out of the hotel window on the Arno. 

The Florence sky no longer wept; in- 
stead, it w’as intensely blue, while the river 
below caught azure reflections on its tran- 
quil current, and the sunshine rendered the 
Arno quarter of a blighting white hue. 

“ Go where you please,” retorted Mrs. 
Bayard, sharply. 

The lady’s mood had not improved in 
these months of waiting for the completion 
of John Winter's study. Liberty to travel 


OF CELIA BAYARD. 

had inspired in her that restlessness in in- 
action, that desire to be in another place 
at the same moment, peculiar to the trans- 
planted American. 

“ It is very tiresome for you to be always 
out of temper,” retorted Celia, petulantly. 
“Why did you come to Florence? Per- 
haps Rome may please you no better when 
you reach it. I am sure I wish the bust 
had never been attempted, you make your- 
self so unhappy about it.” 

These reproaches rallied the spirit of 
Mrs. Bayard. She rose from her arm-chair, 
caressed Celia’s hair half apologetically, 
and kissed her. 

“ Let us visit the churches,” she said, in 
a milder tone. 

Celia made a little grimace of ill-humor 
in turn. Possibly her own enthusiasm had 


'4 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


somewhat abated since her first appear- 
ance as model in the sculptor’s studio in a 
lavender dress, and with little gold bangles 
sliding on her wrists. 

“ One would infer that our life and fut- 
ure happiness depended on escaping from 
Florence, just because one little engage- 
ment detains us,” she continued. “We 
may find a Mrs. General Jefferson at Rome, 
and be equally lonely afterward.” 

Mrs. Bayard shuddered. 

“ Impossible !” she exclaimed, fastening 
her bonnet strings energetically. 

Little Theresa brought Celia’s cloak with 
smiling zeal. Little Theresa, transformed 
from humble drudge of hotel femme de 
chambre to lady’s maid of the rich forestieri, 
appeared in a black silk dress, with flaring 
collar of linen, exposing her throat to every 
Apennine wind, coral ear-drops vying with 
the bloom of her cheeks, and a lace veil 
thrown over her head coquettishly. She 
also was intent on performing her devo- 
tions in honor of Holy Thursday, and on 
meeting her lover at the church door, 
Florentine fashion. 

Mrs. Bayard and Celia, inspired by Prot- 
estant curiosity, entered the Church of 
San Gaetano. Pedestrians on the Via Tor- 
nabuoni hastened past the sacred edifice, 
for the most part. A drowsy cab - horse 
stood before the steps with his nose in a 
bag. 

The interior was not ineffective. The 
chancel had been converted into a bower 
of white and pink azaleas ; lights glittered 
on the silver tabernacle of Petrucci and 
the bronze crucifix of Susini. A group of 
penitents, in white robes and cowls, bore 
the canopy above the heads of the officiat- 
ing priests, chanting lustily. A French 
bonne had placed a taper in the hand of 
each of her charges — a little girl and a boy 
— deriving much satisfaction from leading 
these tiny Christians in the train of the 
penitents and crimson canopy, with its sil- 
ver fringe. 

“ I should never be converted in that 
church,” proclaimed Mrs. Bayard, as they 
emerged once more. 

“Wait,” said Celia, roguishly. “Who 
knows how soon we may be performing 
the same penances ?” 

“ Nothing can be more improbable,” said 
Mrs. Bayard. 

Back of the Lung’ Arno Acciajouli arch- 
es and dark passages lead to the little Pi- 
azza del Limbo. On one side of this tiny 


square is the low, quaint Church of the 
SS. Apostoli. All about the little church 
tower old houses, discolored and dilapi- 
dated ; opposite is a thriving beer-garden, 
where Teutons usually linger at little ta- 
bles, sipping the favorite beverage. On the 
adjacent canon’s residence a lamp still 
burns before a shrine, with its sculptured 
inscription promising absolution of thou- 
sands of years to all who should pray here. 

Mrs. Bayard lingered long in the Piazza 
del Limbo, charmed by the nook, with its 
odd mingling of past and present, if not 
religiously impressed. Mass was being per- 
formed ; the devout knelt before the terra- 
cotta tabernacle of Luca della Robbia and 
the Immaculate Conception of Vasari. A 
school of boys in uniform — the wee milita- 
ry men of Italy of the future, rosy-cheeked 
and pretty — stood in the aisle, each holding 
an open prayer-book, in decorous attitude. 

“I should like to know the history of 
this little church,” said Celia, already inter- 
ested in the pilgrimage, and forgetful of 
previous ill-humor. 

Across, the Piazza of the Carmine greet- 
ed them with the sunny warmth and tran- 
quil aspect peculiar to these old city 
squares, where summer seems ever to linger, 
in glimpses of green foliage and vines vis- 
ible above garden-walls. How rough and 
unsightly the exterior of the Church of the 
Carmine, thus left unfinished by thrifty 
citizens, like so many Florence churches, to 
evade the tribute due a pope on comple- 
tion! How lofty and impressive the inte- 
rior, with its marble pavement, Madonna 
del Carmine enthroned above the high al- 
tar, and that familiar chapel of the Bran- 
cacci on the right, toward which pilgrims 
still flock ! This dim chapel of a venera- 
ble church, the art school to which Raph- 
ael hastened to study the frescoes of a pre- 
ceding genius, who had ventured to eman- 
cipate human limbs from Byzantine swad- 
dling-bands, still reveals, outspread on its 
Avails, the rich pages of an illustrated vol- 
ume. Masaccio’s Adam and Eve are driven 
forth from a shadowy paradise to a shadowy 
future; Lippi’s St. Paul visits Peter in pris- 
on; Jesus commands the apostle to take 
tribute-money of the fish. 

The old sacristan diw the curtains, 
blinked at Mrs. Bayard and Celia with red 
eyes, and mumbled his oft-repeated expla- 
nations in a hoarse voice, suggestive of 
much wine imbibing. 

A buxom peasant woman knelt before 


75 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


the altar, covered with its red cloth, and 
the emblem of San Bernardino of Siena 
embroidered in rays. She held her baby 
in her arms, murmuring a rapid prayer, and 
restrained a stout boy with the other hand. 
The child trotted up to the red altar-cloth 
and kissed it. The mother and baby laugh- 
ed at his droll audacity. None of the 
group glanced at the frescoes above. 

The afternoon sun slanted across the 
roofs on the square of Santo Spirito, and 
groups of children played games on the 
steps of the stately church, work of Brunel- 
leschi, which raises its fine campanile and 
dome above the town. The icy -cold at- 
mosphere of the interior soon drove back 
Mrs. Bayard and her daughter from the 
contemplation of its Corinthian columns, 
the picture of St. Monica giving the rules 
to the Agostinian nuns, by Lippi, and the 
tabernacle containing Donatello’s statue 
of the Madonna, in wood. The door 
clanged behind them, awakening muffled 
echoes in the sombre and hushed atmos- 
phere — an echo, perhaps, of Luther’s voice, 
who preached here, a humble monk jour- 
neying to Rome. 

Or’ San Michele, in the gathering dusk, 
is a shrine where weary old men and wom- 
en congregate on Holy Thursday. Out- 
side, the statues, in their niches, gaze down 
silently on the noisy street ; the medallions 
by Luca della Robbia are visible, inserted 
in the gray wall ; the quaint arch spans the 
space above the door. The church is dark ; 
the old people kneel here and there, while 
in this obscurity the tabernacle of Orcagna 
appears glorified with myriads of tapers, 
rising like a sculptured cone on the high 
altar. The effect is magical, almost unreal, 
and the painted windows, already over- 
shadowed by night, yield a faint reflection 
— the mere suggestion of rich purple and 
crimson tints on pavement and wall. 

“ Oh, I like this one best,” said Celia, 
scattering small coin among the throng 
of beggars at the door. “We are good 
Catholics to-day, mamma. We have visited 
five churches already, and two remain.” 

The carriage turned down a narrow street ; 
the coachman glanced over his shoulder at 
Celia for approval, and soon paused. This 
street, dark, dirty, and scarcely more than 
an alley in width, formed, with others equal- 
ly tortuous, a space between the Piazza del- 
la Signoria and that of the Duomo. Straw 
littered the threshold of little shops, reek- 
ing with petroleum oil; a central gutter 


flowed with turbid water over damp stones ; 
an iron cross in a high wall denoted a dis- 
mantled convent ; the closed iron gates of 
a deserted market served to display the 
gayly - colored literature of a street mer- 
chant, with hand-cart drawn up near. A 
star of light gleamed through the open 
door before which the carriage had paused. 

“ Is it a church ?” inquired Mrs. Bayard, 
wonderingly. 

“Antonio has brought us to the chapel 
of the Prince del Giglio, which is open once 
a year,” Celia explained. “ Oh, mamma, 
have you forgotten that night and the 
funeral ?” 

“ No,” said Mrs. Bayard, slowly. 

The chapel was located in the rear of 
the palace, and opened on another street. 
A broad stone seat extended along the 
wall of the building, resort of the ragged 
and decrepit loungers, even in winter. Be- 
yond this seat two steps, worn smooth by 
centuries, led to a portico, supported on 
either side of the door by those monsters 
emblematic of the lion, according to the 
Lombard type. Mrs. Bayard and Celia 
entered. 

They found themselves in a tiny chapel, 
hushed and deserted except for an acolyte 
in white robes seated near the chancel. In 
the centre rose a sepulchre of carved marble, 
in imitation of that at Jerusalem. Within 
the railing of the tiny high altar was ex- 
tended a life-size figure of Christ crowned 
with thorns. It was one of those terrible, 
murdered Saviours — whose features are dis- 
torted with suffering, and whose wounds 
appear to gush with fresh blood — so re- 
volting to the spectator. On the altar was 
placed a small wooden image of the Ma- 
donna, wearing a gilded crown, advanced 
from the shrine, with silk curtains, which 
usually held it as a sacred relic. The walls 
depicted one of Benozzo Gozzoli’s “Proces- 
sion of the Kings,” coming with precious 
gifts and rejoicings to hail the nativity. 
The train of richly-caparisoned horses and 
camels wended their way over the hills, fol- 
lowed by the Nubian slaves, bearing vessels 
of gold and silver ; the wise men, in robes 
of state, appeared, surrounded by their at- 
tendants, and reached that host of celestial 
beings who bent in worship toward the 
altar, typical of the manger where the young 
child lay, in a halo of smiling faces and the 
quiver of innumerable wings. Dimmed by 
the years, touched by the effacing finger of 
damp and mildew, these wonderful Biblical 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


76 

pageants still unfold, in such nooks, their 
beauty, and move the heart of the observer. 

Celia returned to the sepulchre and knelt 
beside it, .the better to observe the interior. 
This emblematic tomb was lined with flow- 
ers — chiefly immortelles — and sparkled with 
tapers. On the morrow the ghastly image 
now reposing before the altar would receive 
interment here. 

A light and leisurely footstep crossed the 
chapel, paused behind Celia, and then some 
person knelt beside her. A sense of con- 
trition and shame was the young girl’s first 
emotion. Here was a true worshipper, who 
fancied she prayed, when in reality curiosity 
to peep into the sepulchre had led her to 
assume her present posture. She remained 
irresolute for a moment, with her eyes fixed 
on the ground. 

“ Bellissima !” breathed a soft voice in her 
ear. 

Celia started and blushed. She turned 
her head quickly. A young man knelt be- 
side her, and returned her glance of surprise 
with one of tender and eloquent admira- 
tion. He was slender, graceful, and about 
twenty-five years of age, with regular feat- 
ures, clear olive complexion, brown hair, 
and beard parted on the chin. This living 
head resembled the Guercino Christ. He 
wore a garment with collar and cuffs of 
seal-skin, like that of his brother, the dandy 
of the Paris boulevard, whom he copied as 
closely as possible in all things, it may be 
superfluous to add. 

Celia rose to her feet and joined her 
mother. 

“ I am ready to go, mamma,” she said, 
demurely, and with a suppressed smile hov- 
ering about her lips. 

Had the young man knelt beside the sep- 
ulchre because of her presence there ? Who 
was he? She could not resist stealing a 
glance at him through her eyelashes, at the 
chapel door, in departing. The stranger 
stood on the threshold and returned the 
glance. Mrs. Bayard perceived nothing; 
nor could she divine the cause of her 
daughter’s sudden and unreasonable merri- 
ment. Of course the young man had been 
very impertinent to whisper “Bellissima” 
in her ear, but then, was it not the custom 
of the country ? 

The Duomo afforded a fitting close to the 
round of churches. Pure and white in the 
twilight, that interior, at an earlier hour 
barren in its simplicity, had become a pro- 
found abyss of gloom. The cathedral, in 


its magnificent proportions, alone was capa- 
ble of portraying the idea that night was 
closing in fear, doubt, painful anticipation, 
and on the morrow Christ would be cruci- 
fied. A side altar was brilliantly illumina- 
ted, shedding radiance across the chancel 
like a bar of molten gold, and revealed in 
all its beautiful delicacy the Luca della 
Robbia “Ascension” above the sacristy door, 
on the threshold of which Giuliano de’ Me- 
dici was stabbed, while Lorenzo escaped. 
A circle of tapers burned in the choir. The 
marble carvings of the railing were con- 
cealed by the dense crowd; beyond, the 
faces of the penitents were faintly outlined, 
and a bloom of snowy flowers embowered 
the silver tomb of St. Zenobia. Michael 
Angelo’s “Pieta” — noble fruit of a sad old 
age — remained lost in shadow beneath the 
vast dome. . 

In this sanctuary all appeared to await 
in awe and solemn silence the terrible To- 
morrow, which dawned on the Christian 
world eighteen hundred years ago. 

Celia Bayard became aware that, in the 
throng about the choir, one person stood 
immovable by her side; a sleeve border- 
ed with seal-skin brushed her arm. The 
young stranger of the private chapel had 
also reached the Duomo. Her heart began 
to flutter in her breast; a delicious self- 
consciousness made her avert her head, as 
if studying the quaint fresco of Dante on 
the wall. Had he followed her ? 

A bell tinkled; the stranger mechani- 
cally bent his head. Celia bowed her own, 
without being conscious of it, as the wind 
sways the flower of the field. Then they 
looked at each other. 

The hour, the place, the mysterious still- 
ness of the crowd, combined, with the ob- 
scurity of the temple, starred with twin- 
kling lights, to influence this encounter. 
The young man’s oval face, with its regu- 
lar beauty, gained a spiritual expression in 
the twilight ; his fine eyes seemed to pene- 
trate and read the depths of Celia’s soul. 
He smiled softly, and made a slight gesture, 
as of caressing entreaty, with his hand. 
He did not speak again, but such was the 
homage of his look and attitude that Celia 
would have scarcely been surprised had he 
kissed the border of her mantle. 

This subtle flattery of tenderness and re- 
spectful adoration in the Italian proves 
irresistible to the English and American 
woman. The Anglo-Saxon man, however 
loyal and devoted he may be to the object 


77 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

of his choice, and whom he would fain 
make his wife before the world, does not 
salute the hem of her garments, as a rule, 
and would make himself awkwardly ridic- 
ulous if he did. 

Celia did not smile. Her cheek paled, 
and she trembled. 

“ Fairest seemed he of God’s seraphs ; 

And her spirit, lily-wise, 

Blossomed when he turned upon her 
The deep welcome of his eyes, 

Sending upward to that sunlight 
All its dew for sacrifice.” 

The tapers shed their rays on the faces 
of the penitents, framed in their white 
hoods; the vast pavement stretched from 
door to altar, and above the dome was lost 
in a darkness which descended on the 
multitude like sable wings. 

“ That is over 1” exclaimed Mrs. Bayard, 
with a sigh of relief, when she was again 
seated in her carriage. 

Celia smiled. 

“Did you notice an elegant young man 
standing near us?” pursued Mrs. Bayard, 
in a meditative tone. “ He appeared to be 
much interested in you, love.” 

Celia turned to her mother with a radi- 
ant look. 

“ Oh, do you think so ?” she cried, with a 
joyous ring in her voice. 

Mrs. Bayard nodded her head. 

“ He must have been a nobleman, I am 
confident. No youth of plebeian origin 
ever carried himself with such grace,” said 
this republican parent. 

Celia was silent. Her eyes were fixed on 
the horizon. 

Good-Friday succeeded. 

“We need only visit two or three 
churches to-day,” said Celia, very blithely. 
She had slept soundly, and beheld the 
morning through the softened medium of 

o o 

dreams, permeated by novel, inexplicable 
influences. What were they, these fresh 
sensations of brain and heart ? The young 
girl could not explain, even to herself. 
Laughter and tears were equally near the 
surface of her unfolding womanhood. 

Mrs. Bayard submitted in silent resigna- 
tion, and they went out. 

Old Florence churches ! How a stranger 
may learn to love them ! 

Santa Maria Novella, christened “The 
Bride” by Michael Angelo, greeted an- 
other Good-Friday with pomp of musical 
mass, mellow sunshine bathing the mar- 
ble fa 9 ade and adjacent cloister; while the 


• V 

\ 

OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

pensive Cimabue Madonna, in her shrine 
of the Ruccellai Chapel, held the Christ- 
child on her knee, surrounded by the at- 
tendant throng of angels in gold draperies. 
Celia Bayard glanced quickly about on 
entering the central door, expectation un- 
accountably quickening her pulses. She 
half dreaded to discover a stranger in fur- 
red coat, with delicate oval face, smiling 
at her in the gloom, and was equally dis- 
appointed by his absence. He was not 
visible. Ah ! while the world of youth 
and maiden endures, the Knight Lohen- 
grin will ever be watched for in the clouds, 
descending from unknown spheres in his 
swan-boat ! Had Celia Bayard discovered 
her Knight Lohengrin, already alighted on 
earth ? She did not thus fathom her own 
thoughts, but searched cloudland, never- 
theless, while following the curly -headed 
boy officiating as sacristan, who jingled 
his keys and went through his formula 
glibly in the Spanish chapel. What did 
she care about St. Thomas Aquinas en- 
throned on one wall, with the Book of 
Wisdom open before him, or the patrician 
Spaniard, St. Dominic, opposite ? She had 
not read those charming little books by 
Mr. Ruskin, descriptive of the spot, which 
pique the interest and arouse the resent- 
ment of the reader ; it is to be feared she 
would have yawned in the face of this 
august critic. Her eye wandered listlessly 
over the great spiritual history of the Do- 
minican rule on earth, without attempting 
to comprehend it. The echo of a passing 
footstep in the cloister interested her far 
more. 

The curly -headed boy regarded Celia 
mirthfully. Was she not a heretic — a wolf, 
like those routed by St. Dominic in the 
fresco ? The irreverent youth evinced a 
predilection for the devils of droll aspect, 
glancing askance at saints from behind 
sheltering rocks. Celia did not laugh with 
him. She rehearsed her adventures of the 
previous day, and lost herself in dreamy 
conjectures as to the possible identity of 
the object of her thoughts. She had en- 
tered the private chapel of that old palace 
once shown her by John Winter, on the 
day of the funeral of the princely owner; 
and a young man, the most stately and 
beautiful in aspect she had ever beheld, 
had come forward and knelt beside her. 
Who was he ? Why had he been there at 
the same moment? What did it signify 
to her whether she gazed at the work of 



78 


/ J>K FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


Simone Mennui or of Taddeo Gaddi, ob- 
scured by the restorer’s brush ? The 
stranger had not appeared to her in the 
Churcli of Santa Maria Novella. 

Outside, in the silent cloister, the curly- 
headed boy was joined by two recreant 
acolytes, with faces like cherubs ; one of 
the latter emptied the contents of his pock- 
et on a stone. The sunshine rested on the 
grass, and the three boy-heads bent togeth- 
er over the treasures of an acolyte’s pocket. 

Our pilgrims next sought the Church 
of Santa Trinita, which possesses peculiar 
interest to the devout on Good -Friday. 
Again Celia glanced about furtively, and 
without result. Her face clouded imper- 
ceptibly. An old church, with pavement 
worn by many feet since the thirteenth 
century of its erection; the saints on the 
doors dust-laden ; and the miracle-picture, 
which bowed to Gualberto so long ago at 
San Miniato, when he forgave his brother’s 
murderer, unveiled above the altar, set in 
gilded rays. The dim relic — one of those 
greenish paintings under glass, stretched 
in the form of a cross, like St. Catharine’s 
crucifix at Siena — did not impress Celia. 
It is doubtful if the lesson of the old 
church, “ love your enemies,” reached her 
heart. Her mood was becoming change- 
able. 

Justice poised her scales on the granite 
column of the little piazza without, where 
the cabs stand ; opposite is the stately Pa- 
lazzo Feroni, and beyond the Trinita: bridge 
spans the invisible Arno. 

Celia Bayard hesitated a moment, then 
directed the coachman to drive to Santa 
Croce without consulting her mother. 
Surely one may drive about the city on a 
fine afternoon. What could be more natu- 
ral ? Mrs. Bayard, most tractable of par- 
ents, did not resist. Why did her daugh- 
ter start with a guilty sense of pleasure 
when she beheld a slim youth, with collar 
and cuffs of seal-skin, in the distance ? Alas ! 
the furred youth were numerous, gathered 
in groups at corners to ogle the ladies, and 
strolling singly, but never revealed the cav- 
alier with pointed beard and starry eyes. 

Santa Croce in the twilight, its new fa- 
cade like freshly - fallen snow, and Dante 
meditating on his pedestal in the square, 
while the people sit and gossip on the 
benches about him. Of all shrines in 
which to watch Good-Friday wane, be the 
visitor Protestant or Catholic, Santa Croce 
is the most impressive. The interior is de- 


serted and cold. The great space of naked 
ceiling seems lost in distance ; the red tile 
pavement, always humid, is broken by the 
effigy of a knight here and there with 
meekly folded arms, on whom one treads 
so thoughtlessly. The tombs extend on 
either side : Galileo sleeps after hot contro- 
versy, no longer blinded to his star-worlds ; 
Machiavelli’s tongue is mute ; Dante muses, 
half bitterly ; Michael Angelo rests at last, 
heedless of the disciple arts at his feet. In- 
visible priests and choristers chant, and their 
intonations make a hollow echo beneath 
the rafters. One old man, with silvery 
hair and in embroidered robes, stands on 
the altar steps to extinguish the candles of 
the branched candelabra. The frosty vetch, 
fostered in damp cellars for the purpose, 
forms the sole floral decoration here. Each 
shrine and altar is adorned with the pret- 
ty white tendrils, resembling ivory in deli- 
cacy, which form columns about the pict- 
ures; the spray of fountains brim over 
railings, and construct fragile crosses and 
ladders, starred with purple blossoms, em- 
blematic of the Passion. 

The chapels behind the altar grow dark ; 
the chant rises and falls on the ear ; the old 
priest extinguishes the candles; the audi- 
ence is composed of that company of stat- 
ues — Italy wearing her crown of towers, 
and all her graceful sisterhood in marble — 
Poetry, Hope, Faith — languishing over the 
biers of philosophers, poets, and statesmen. 
Memory echoes the uttered prayer. 

Here, two years ago, a slender young 
man escorted a lady in black up the aisle 
to the Bonaparte chapel, while the crowd 
gaped, speculating on his chance of one 
day wearing the diadem of France. The 
young man was the Prince Imperial, spend- 
ing the winter at Florence with his moth- 
er ; and he has since become as shadowy as 
other shapes in Santa Croce — always a por- 
tal of the tomb. The ex-Empress Eugenie, 
whose gaze was then pensive in retrospec- 
tion of vanished glories, may now take her 
place beside those ranks of mourning wom- 
en, their heads mutfied in folds of crgpe,who 
fill the grated chapels on the occasion of 
requiem masses held here, and furnish a 
background of sorrowing humanity for the 
flare of wax-candles in massive silver stand- 
ards, for catafalque, and for the Misericor- 
dia banner, surrounded by wreaths of curl- 
ing incense. The once brilliant lady of 
the Tuileries has surely passed into such 
quenching gloom as Santa Croce forever. 


79 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

Mrs. Bayard, drilled and depressed by 
these surroundings, suddenly seated her- 
self on one of the benches, and began to 
weep. 

“ What is the matter ?” whispered Celia, 
her own eyes dimming with sympathy. 

“ I was thinking of your father,” sobbed 
Mrs. Bayard, piteously, and hiding her 
face in her hands. “ I wonder if he sees 
us now — away off here, alone, and — unpro- 
tected ?” 

“We will visit no more old churches,” 
said Celia, assuming the manner of consol- 
er ; “I am tired of them also.” 

The mountains on the horizon glowed 
with warm light in the sunset, and the sky 
retained its beryl and citron tints of the 
previous evening, but the girl did not no- 
tice the beauties of nature on the occasion. 
What had become of the cavalier with fine 
eyes, in the seal-skin cuffs ? Why had he 
disappeared so soon ? 

Celia pouted, and threw herself back in 
her corner of the carriage, manifestly no 
longer interested in Florence and her 
churches. 


CHAPTER II. 

ft 

A BUNCH OF ROSES. 

Easter Sunday dawned — a joyous day, 
with high festival in the very air. A blue 
sky, a blue river, from whose tint the jew- 
ellers of the Ponte Vecchio might have 
caught the turquoise of their favorite orna- 
ments ; sparkling sunshine, and the sharp 
w r ind at rest in the hollows of the Apen- 
nines, whose snow -peaks gained fairy tur- 
rets and pinnacles, as seen through a soft 
atmosphere — such was Easter -day. The 
church bells, gathering volume from the 
mellow note of the Duomo, pealed forth 
their melodies, faintly echoed by some 
campanile of the country, like the pulsa- 
tions of the summer breeze. 

How the Florentines stream out of their 
dark homes on such holidays ! They for- 
get pinching poverty, a meagre dinner, 
cold, so that they may gather in the street 
for a festa , to chatter and laugh. The mil- 
itary band thundered in the Loggia di 
Lanzi, and the officers, in brilliant uniform, 
walked about, clanking their swords. 

At an early hour of the afternoon the 
Lung’ Arno was thronged with the popu- 
lace, wending its way to the Cascine in 
every variety of equipage, from the landau 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

of the noble, with its large English horses 
and rich liveries, to the most dilapidated 
street Jiaci'e, with rawboned steed, occupied 
by a party equally well pleased with itself, 
and not permitting envy to mar the luxury 
of a Sunday drive. Pedestrians lined the 
curb-stone — the women limping in tight 
boots, tawdry hats on the back of their 
heads, and holding muffs between their 
eyes and the blazing rays of the sun. 

Count Carmine Guigione might have 
been seen directing his steps toward this 
park, carefully selecting the back streets in 
shade with the prudence of an old resident. 
His light and supple form was attired in 
the latest fashion, and he bore his sixty 
yeai’3 with a jaunty good-liumor which de- 
fied and disarmed time. In his own circle 
the count was known as a useful man, and 
treated accordingly with consideration. 

Arrived at the last house of the Corso 
Vittorio Emanuele, he smoothed his yellow 
kid-gloves, flecked a grain of dust from his 
sleeve with a dapper little cane, passed his 
hand over his gray mustache, and read- 
justed the sprig of jasmine in his button- 
hole. No young girl about to enter her 
first ball-room could have been more solic- 
itous about her appearance than was this 
old Italian gentleman. 

Then he crossed the Piazza della Zou- 
ave, entered the Cascine gate, and mingled 
with the throng. His world was gathered 
here — all the world Count Guigione had 
ever known, and which amply satisfied his 
aspirations. This old child of nature, be- 
longing to a passing generation, did not 
know the meaning of the word ennui , 
which has become the fashionable watch- 
word of his successors. 

The trees of the alley along which he 
passed formed a delicate lace-work of ten- 
der foliage overhead. The long, monoto- 
nous drive, bordering the slope of green 
meadows, with the charming view of moun- 
tains beyond, was filled its entire length 
by two lines of carriages, which turned, 
passed, and wheeled back again in inter- 
minable procession. Here a pale young 
Russian drove a national drosky, the horse 
harnessed with a hoop and bell, the coach- 
man in traditional caftan and cap. There 
a foreign lady of celebrity, in her day, re- 
clined among the cushions of her victoria, 
holding a white lace parasol above her 
head. The vivid colors of the toilets, the 
beauty of the children, the spirited horses 
in glittering trappings, formed a picture 


80 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


pleasing to the eye of Count Guigione, and 
of which he never 'wearied. 

In that open-air drawing-room above — 
the Piazzetta — where the carriages pause, 
he made his way about among his friends, 
complimenting the ladies, old and young, 
on their appearance. 

Mrs. Jefferson’s coup6 was drawn up be- 
side the path. She did not belong to the 
gay circle of the Piazzetta, but she paused 
a moment, if only to receive the greetings 
of the few pedestrians whom she recog- 
nized. Count Guigione, perceiving the 
lady, advanced, with his most gallant bear- 
ing, to pay his respects. Mrs. Jefferson 
flushed with gratified pride. He paused 
sufficiently long to exchange a few conven- 
tional remarks, and then made way for 
Miss Bevis-Smith. The latter, in a fresh 
bonnet trimmed with lilacs, and her poo- 
dle tucked under her arm, accosted Mrs. 
Jefferson with even unusual animation. 

“ Have you heard the news ?” she in- 
quired, thrusting her head into the car- 
riage window. 

“ No,” retorted Mrs. Jefferson, eagerly. 

“ Then you have received no invitation ?” 
said Miss Bevis-Smith, in a tantalizing 
manner, and again withdrawing her head. 

Mrs. Jefferson’s black eyes snapped. 
Who had dared to slight her? 

“Will you not permit me to drive you 
home, dear Miss Bevis-Smith ?” she said, in 
a calm and persuasive tone. 

“ No, thanks ; I would much rather walk 
and see the people, you know,” said Miss 
Bevis-Smith, briskly, and glancing about 
her. 

“Well ! Did I understand that you had 
some news to tell me ?” demanded the 
voice of the occupant of the coupe. 

“ Ah, yes, to be sure ! A protege of the 
American sculptor, Mr. Abraham Black- 
wood, has completed a bust, and sent out 
invitations for to-morrow. I have one. 
Perhaps you will accompany me ? I shall 
be very pleased. You are devoted to art, 
dear Mrs. Jefferson. The subject is that 
young girl, Mrs. Bayard’s daughter, and 
she has not left Florence.” 

Mrs. Jefferson bounded on her cushions 
with anger. 

“I will go with you to-morrow,” she 
said, biting her lip. 

Count Carmine Guigione passed on to 
the carriage of the Countess Vallambroni. 
Several young men were grouped here, 
talking with the ladies. Alas ! the horses 


of the countess wep rough and lean, the 
green liveries a trifle faded, the coronet on 
the panel slightly tarnished. Despite the 
most rigid economy, the most pinching 
self-denial practised in the old palace at 
home, where it was rumored the noble la- 
dies of the family remained in bed until 
afternoon to avoid the necessity of an early 
meal, rust was settling on the properties of 
an illustrious household. All the world 
knew that the next Easter would find the 
countess deprived altogether of her car- 
riage, in the increased expenses of living, 
and the heavy burden of taxation imposed 
by a new government. 

The Countess Vallambroni wore a veil 
of black lace, which did not conceal the 
lines in her sad face. Her two daugh- 
ters, both attired in pale blue, laughed 
gayly with the young men beside the car- 
riage. 

The Contessina Olga, as eldest, occupied 
the place beside her mother, and held her- 
self stiffly in the corner of the landau, in 
the attitude deemed requisite to display 
the figure to advantage. She was small 
and graceful ; the natural sallow tint of a 
somewhat sharply -pointed face was en- 
hanced by the pale blue dress and a white 
tulle veil which confined her black hair 
low on the forehead. The face was that 
of the Tuscan woman of every class — nar- 
row, long, and without regularity of feat- 
ure; but in place of the small eyes which 
so often impart an expression of crafty in- 
telligence to this type, those of the Contes- 
sina Olga were large, lustrous, even boldly 
defiant in expression. 

It is the prevalence of this face in Tus- 
cany which renders an exception, in a truly 
beautiful woman, so remarkable, especially 
in a Florentine. 

Several years had elapsed since this 
young lady’s return from her convent, 
where she had been educated, and the 
proposed match between the Vallambroni 
and the Giglio was no longer discussed as 
probable. The bride had no dot , and the 
bridegroom was impoverished. If the mar- 
riage had not been consummated while the 
Prince del Giglio was still living, it was 
still more impracticable when his son suc- 
ceeded. 

Olga was talking with the young prince, 
however, in a low tone of confidence, which 
is possible in a crowded park. 

“Will you be at the opera to-night?” 
she inquired, softly, fixing her eyes on the 


81 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

young man with all the bewitching mag- 
netism of which they were capable. 

“ No. I leave for Paris at nine o’clock,” 
he replied, in the same rapid undertone. 

“Ah! to see Paris!” sighed Olga, her 
face clouding. 

Count Guigione stood behind the prince. 

“ How go the English lessons ?” he in- 
quired, with the familiarity of a relative. 

“ I speak like a native,” replied Olga, in 
English, with a little grimace. 

“ Bravo ! You may need it some day,” 
said Count Guigione. 

Olga exchanged a meaning glance with 
the smiling old gentleman. Then her eye 
reverted tenderly to the prince. What 
was this ? He no longer looked at her. 

Olga turned her head quickly, and fol- 
lowed the direction of his gaze. 

Mrs. Bayard and Celia drove past in an 
open carriage, and it was toward them that 
the Prince del Giglio was looking with 
visible interest. Both mother and daugh- 
ter were in good spirits ; they smiled and 
talked together. Mrs. Bayard, in a rich 
black dress, with a touch of silver about 
her bonnet, made an admirable foil to 
Celia, in pearl-gray, her straw hat crowned 
with a spray of rose-buds. They had just 
returned from a drive in the country, which 
had interested Celia profoundly, and along 
the route children had thrust into the car- 
riage the first harvest of the “ City of Flow- 
ers,” gladly receiving a few sous in ex- 
change. The carriage was filled with ja- 
ponicas, violets of a velvet richness, pink 
and purple hyacinths, great branches of 
homely lilacs, clusters of lilies of the valley, 
folded in their green leaves, tulips, and 
j>oppies from the cornfields. 

Celia revelled in this wealth of color and 
fragrance with the esctasy of delight so 
puzzling to the native, and which serves to 
confirm the modern Italian belief that for- 
eigners must ever seek Italy as a school. 
Flowers are deadly poison! The Italian 
carefully excludes them from his dwelling, 
while abiding philosophically amidst the 
most evil and noxious odors of ancient cities. 

The Florentine habitues of the Cascine 
slightly elevated their eyebrows, and in- 
quired languidly who these strangers might 
be. 

Celia, returning the quick scrutiny of the 
Contessina Olga, met the eyes of the Prince 
del Giglio. Yes, he was her cavalier of 
the furred coat, who again turned on her 
that magnetic and eloquent glance. 

6 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

Count Guigione raised his hat courteous- 
ly. Mrs. Bayard bowed stiffly; Celia smiled. 
The carriage rolled on. “ Really a pretty 
girl,” observed Miss Bevis- Smith, again 
looking in the window of Mrs. Jefferson’s 
coup6. 

“I dare say the sculptor has made a 
flattering likeness,” was the tart response. 

“ Oh, no doubt,” assented Miss Bevis- 
Smith, promptly. 

The carriage of Mrs. Bayard made the 
tour of the drive as far as the monument 
of the Indian Prince — that startling effigy, 
in gilded turban, who confronts the pleas- 
ure-seeker at the junction of the two ave- 
nues beside the river. Returning by the 
less frequented route along the shore, damp- 
ness and fog already lurked in the depths 
of the shrubbery, and made Mrs. Bayard 
shiver. An old woman waylaid the la- 
dies here, and Celia added a cluster of 
wind-blown roses to the heap of bloom on 
the opposite seat. 

“ Grazie tanti, signorina. Buona salute,” 
said the old woman, in her sonorous voice, 
and departed. 

Then Celia found that she was observed, 
and the circumstance made her tremble. 
The young man, of whose name she was 
ignorant, had emerged from a sheltered 
path, and paused, as if to allow the carriage 
to pass. There was a mist of golden sun- 
shine across the trees and grass ; again Ce- 
lia encountered an ardent glance, a fleet- 
ing smile, before she had also entered the 
blinding light, which dazzled and confused 
her. The dark eyes had spoken to her 
brain and her heart. Her lip quivered; 
she would like to weep. The dark eyes 
said, 

“ I am here, and you recognize me. — I 
love you. — Why are we not happy ?” 

Indecision, pain, and vague delight smote 
this vision of spring, in her charming toilet, 
with her carriage filled with flowers. She 
would have liked to lay her head on her 
mother’s shoulder and indulge in a shower 
of tears. One can be too acutely happy ! 
“Tears are the universal heritage of the 
human race,” said the wise Pfere Lacordaire, 
“ and they would flow, alone, from deep, 
mysterious sources, by virtue of that won- 
derful sadness which lurks everlastingly in 
the human breast.” 

Again the Contessina Olga surveyed Ce- 
lia with a swift and resentful feminine in- 
spection; again Miss Bevis-Smith blinked 
at her, meditatively, with small, sharp eyes, 


82 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


and then the Bayards disappeared through 
the gates. 

Count Guigione returned down the al- 
ley, swinging his cane, with a complacent 
smile on his face strangely at variance with 
his thoughts at the moment. The young 
Prince del Giglio joined him. 

“Who is she?” he inquired, taking the 
count’s arm. 

“ Sacre lieu! A little American girl, 
amiable and pretty,” said the old gentle- 
man, lightly. “ Shall I present you, caro 
mio ?” 

The young man shrugged his shoulders. 

“I leave for Paris to-night.” 

Count Guigione raised his eyes and 
hands to heaven. 

“In my day young men did not go to 
Paris,” he said. 

“ However, I am going with Carlo,” said 
the prince, carelessly. “ Will she be here 
next winter ? — What is her name ?” 

“ Her name is Mees Celia Bayard,” rejoin- 
ed Count Guigione, indicating the questions 
on the tips of his gloved fingers. “She 
will be here next winter if you wish it. I 
answer for the young lady, caro mio. Re- 
main now !” 

The prince opened wide his beautiful eyes. 

“ Lose my trip to Paris ? No, no.” 

“ Perhaps you may lose her,” said Count 
Guigione, lowering his voice. 

“So much the worse. There will be 
others.” 

“You wish her to remain?” 

The prince paused, disengaged his arm, 
and lighted a cigar. His companion watch- 
ed him. 

“Yes, I wish it,” said the young man, 
throwing away the burning match. 

Then he joined some comrades, and walk- 
ed with them down the Arno bank. 

“ May is a beautiful month in Rome,” 
observed Mrs. Bayard, as she returned to 
her own quarters in the hotel. 

“ Surely you will not go now !” exclaim- 
ed Celia, a look of sudden fright in her 

S'. ° 

eyes. “We are just commencing — ” 

She checked herself, and went to her own 
room. Two tears rolled down her cheeks. 
What was the cause of her unhappiness ? 
She did not know. Why had disappoint- 
ment overwhelmed her at the suggestion 
of quitting Florence ? 

The succeeding evening was calm and 
beautiful. The lights twinkled along the 
river, and the bridges spanned it, each an 
arch of little stars. Celia, wrapped in her 


white burnous, stood on the balcony, silent 
and thoughtful. What an eventful Easter 
Sunday it had been ! Mrs. Bayard’s spirits 
had not been depressed by the mournful 
souvenirs of old churches ; instead, the fine 
weather had tempted them into the open 
country. 

Celia had seen Galileo’s tower on the 
hill, the famous weathercock rising above 
slopes of vineyard, and young corn flecked 
with poppies, and surrounded by venerable 
trees clothed in mantles of luxuriant verd- 
ure — a margin of orchard below the tow- 
er, framed in the boughs of pink and snowy 
blossoms — glimpses of the distant city. 

Then she had passed on to the Certosa, 
which rises like a fortress on the olive- 
crowned height, with spire, and belfry, and 
irregular form, as the cells of bees are ce- 
mented together in a common hive. A 
monk in white had received her on the 
threshold — a relic of the vanishing Car- 
thusian order, which has made so many 
desert places bloom. 

This white monk, grave, dignified, and 
courteous, had conducted her through the 
labyrinths of his monastery — through chap- 
els fragrant with incense, over rich marble 
pavements, past wooden doors so elaborate- 
ly carved that they resemble bronze ; before 
sumptuous altars, glittering like frost-work, 
where St. Bruno hovers with floating robes ; 
among columns and balustrades framing 
views of the valley of the Ena, and the de- 
serted cells of occupants doomed to per- 
petual silence. What romance and mystery 
shrouded the white monk, in the imagina- 
tion of Celia ! He had abandoned the world 
of the town, and his gaze reverted to it, 
half wistfully, from his height. Perhaps 
he had loved some fair girl and lost her in 
death, Celia reflected, pensively, while her 
mother bought tiny flasks of perfumery, 
scented boxes, and the famous aromatic 
vinegar of the brotherhood in the laboratory. 
What Certosa lacks the charm of a Speze- 
ria still, where the skilful recluse compounds 
subtle odors from spices and flowers, and dis- 
tils from herbs the golden-tinted Chartreuse ? 

Then Celia had departed from the con- 
vent of the hill-top, its belfry, walls, and 
arches bathed in mellow radiance of spring 
noonday, surrounded by blooming gardens, 
now tilled by contadini. The white monk 
had returned to his sunny cloisters, his sil- 
ver and marble ornamented chapels, and 
his deserted cells. 

Children had thrust their flowers into 


83 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


the carriage along the road, and, returning 
once more to the city, the drive in the Cas- 
cine had completed the enjoyment of an 
Italian day. 

Little Theresa passed out on the balco- 
ny, with a furtive backward glance at Mrs. 
Bayard seated in an arm-chair. 

“ Signorina !” she whispered, in an excited 
tone. 

She held toward Celia a bunch of roses. 

Celia received the bouquet. 

“ For me ?” she said, in a low, tremulous 
tone. 

“Yes. Search the flowers, signorina,” 
added Theresa. 

The little maid felt herself promoted to 
the rank of assisting at an intrigue, with 
the swift intuition of her race. 

Celia made a movement to enter the 
room, her own curiosity aroused. Could 
the roses have been sent by the cavalier of 
the starry eyes? Theresa checked her with 
a look of dismay. 

“Not there, dear signorina, under the 
eyes of the signora mother,” she urged. 
“ The flowers come from a lover.” 

Celia stared at Theresa in turn ; then she 
laughed merrily. 

“ I have no secrets from my mother ; we 
are friends,” said the young girl, quite sim- 
ply- 

Theresa collapsed. Crestfallen, yet fas- 
cinated to observe the result, she peeped, 
like a mouse, through the curtains. 

Celia darted to her mother’s side with a 
hurried explanation, laid the bouquet in 
Mrs. Bayard’s lap, and began to unfasten 
the roses tenderly. She found a slip of 
paper with her name carefully inscribed on 
it, and these w T ords, written in French : 

“These roses salute, in you, the spring-time.” 

Mrs. Bayard and Celia looked at each 
other in silence; then both laughed. 

“ Who can it be ?” murmured Celia. 

“I believe it is the young man in the 
furred coat. -How romantic, darling !” re- 
plied Mrs. Bayard. 

“ Oh, these forestieri 1” groaned little 
Theresa, and went away stupefied. 

The maid did her young mistress injus- 
tice, however. Celia was as capable of 
being instinctively deceitful as other young 
girls, especially if indulging in imprudent 
flirtation, such as a parent might condemn. 
The present case was quite clear. A stran- 
ger had sent her the roses, as a certain 
delicate homage, while remaining veiled in 


shadow. Mrs. Bayard was as much inter- 
ested in the circumstance as Celia. Mother 
and daughter, in the close intimacy of their 
lives, strengthened by the external isolation 
which had been their portion since Celia’s 
infancy, met on the common equality of 
friends. A Russian mother would have 
been scandalized had she heard Celia im- 
part good advice to Mrs. Bayard with juve- 
nile assurance. 

Roses, softly-tinted and fragrant, wafted 
by an unseen hand, on Easter night ! Was 
not the circumstance a fitting close to the 
day of blue sky, orchards in bloom, and 
thronged city streets, with the church bells 
pealing as if to mark the passing hours ? 

The tower of Galileo was dark on the 
horizon ; above it the stars gleamed with 
wonderful brilliancy, like clusters of jewels. 
May not the dark chamber, the winding 
stair, have been life to Galileo, whose soul 
yearned toward the Infinite far above ? 

Celia Bayard dreamed that night. She 
again saw the white monk of the Certosa 
emerging from the church where St. Bruno 
hovered, holding in his hands the cluster of 
roses and a naked wooden cross. “ Choose 1” 
he said, and his voice echoed through the 
cloister like the wind. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE OLD SCULPTOR’S PUPIL. 

“Do you find it a likeness, dear Mrs. 
Jefferson ?” inquired Miss Bevis-Smith. * 

. “ Humph ! I should not recognize it,” 

replied Mrs. Jefferson, in her driest tone. 
“ To be sure, the bust is only in clay as yet. 
Who is this young man John Winter?” 

“ A pupil of Mr. Blackwood, and already 
a favorite,” rejoined Miss Bevis-Smith, who 
always made it a point to know every- 
thing. “It is anticipated that he may 
equal in ability the late Hiram Powers, 
you know.” 

“ Oh, that is always anticipated for some 
young aspirant,” said Mrs. Jefferson. “ Mr. 
Blackwood has two pupils, though. Where' 
is the other ? Ah ! in the corner yonder. 
His name is Albert Dennis. What a fine 
face he has— so delicate and spirituelle /” 

“ Very intelligent,” murmured Miss Bevis- 
Smith, following her companion across the 
studio. 

Albert Dennis, in the laudable desire to 
gather up a few crumbs of this banquet 


84 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


prepared for his rival, exhibited a chubby 
cupid mounted on a butterfly. 

“ Little darling !” exclaimed Mrs. Jeffer- 
son, in her most benevolent tones. 

“ So graceful !” echoed Miss Bevis-Smith, 
restraining her poodle from the attempt to 
sniff at the cupid, in which work of art 
Bijou manifested a lively interest. 

Albert Dennis brightened. Praise was 
balm to his spirit. The old sculptor had 
surveyed his preparations with an ironical 
smile. 

“ I will be quits with both of you yet !” 
he had fumed. Now these ladies smiled 
on his efforts. 

“You did not attempt the portrait bust; 
you prefer ideal subjects, I perceive,” said 
Mrs. Jefferson. 

“No, I did not attempt it,” replied Al- 
bert Dennis. Then he folded his arms and 
smiled in a mysterious manner. Mrs. Jeffer- 
son from this moment espoused the cause 
of Albert Dennis with the warmest partisan- 
ship, and censured John Winter as a con- 
ceited and greatly overrated prodigy. Al- 
bert Dennis was as much puzzled to ac- 
count for the hidden motive of this prefer- 
ence as John Winter would have been to 
explain the lady’s sudden animosity had 
he perceived it. But John Winter noticed 
nothing. In the old sculptor’s studio, and 
absorbed in study, the mere pin-pricks of 
daily vexation never reached him with the 
old, keen sense of pain and humiliation as 
in the term of his boyhood at Herringville. 

The bust of Celia was placed on a pedes- 
tal for exhibition, in a good light, and 
framed in a background of curtain. The 
head in clay might lack the purity and 
delicate severity of feature which marble 
would later impart, but still possessed the 
charming softness of outline more closely 
resembling dimpled flesh. 

John Winter had succeeded beyond the 
anticipations of the master, who did not 
convey approval in words, but rested his 
hand on the shoulder of his protege , wdiile 
surveying his work, in token of encourage- 
ment. His zeal had led him further. To 
have completed the bust in a satisfactory 
manner would have sufficed for John Win- 
ter, in his ignorance of the world. The old 
sculptor shook his head. He did for John 
Winter what pride and supreme scorn of 
the opinions of modern critics would have 
prevented his doing for himself — he in- 
serted in a local journal a paragraph stating 
that Mr. John Winter, pupil of Abraham 


Blackwood, was engaged on the portrait 
bust of a young American lady. When fin- 
ished in clay he had issued cards of invita- 
tion and despatched them to all ranks of 
society. John demurred, astonished at this 
activity in his behalf. 

“ Learn to know your world, my boy,” 
said the old sculptor, with his most satiri- 
cal smile. “You are quite welcome to take 
a leaf of experience from my failures. I 
have never been sufficiently subservient to 
public opinion to be a popular man, or, in- 
deed, to be considered a good sculptor. If 
Albert Dennis continues to grace the pro- 
fession, he will get on far better, in his way, 
than either of us.” 

The day of exhibition had arrived, and 
for some hours a crowd had circulated 
through the studio, eddying about the cen- 
tral pedestal on which the work had been 
placed, murmuring polite phrases to the 
young sculptor, and then frequently ex- 
changing significant glances behind his 
back, with shakes of the head, mindful of 
some professional rival elsewhere — 

“Praising much, yet waiving 
What it profess’d to praise.” 

Public opinion was strangely blended of 
such elements as resentful dislike of the 
old sculptor, jealousy that John Winter 
should have obtained a profitable commis- 
sion, and that dubious admiration which 
fears to express a frank commendation, 
and drifts in neutral silence until the ma- 
jority extol or blame. Then the matter 
becomes very clear indeed, and the unani- 
mous voice merely utters a long precon- 
ceived private conviction, either that a 
true genius has dawned on the world, or 
the young man has sadly mistaken his call- 
ing in life. 

A good fairy smiled on John Winter’s 
debut , however. Mrs. Bayard and Celia 
mingled with the crowd, the former not 
less radiant than the latter. The proud 
mother experienced a sentiment of friendly 
esteem for John Winter, which her natural 
impulsiveness led her to communicate to 
the object of her interest. Was there not 
a remarkable coincidence in this youth 
from the village of Herringville first at- 
tracting notice in making a bust of her 
Celia? Surely such a brilliant commence- 
ment was destined to bear later fruit in 
rich fulfilment. 

“ I trust you will consider your first stat- 
ue as ordered by me in advance, Mr. Win- 


85 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

ter,” she said, with a certain importance of 
manner and dignity of tone which belongs 
to the nouveau riche — a complacency im- 
possible to soon overcome. 

John Winter flushed to the forehead. A 
statue ordered in advance! He must be 
the victim of a dream. 

Public opinion, with its sharp ear, veered 
a trifle toward favorable, regarding the 
young sculptor with a speculative interest. 
He was the same as yesterday, and yet 
everything was changed. 

Count Guigione stood behind Mrs. Bay- 
ard as she spoke, carried away by that 
impulse to acknowledge merit, and be gen- 
erous in her recognition. The count step- 
ped forward, greeted Mrs. Bayard and Celia 
gracefully, and shook hands with John 
Winter in the English fashion. Then he 
proceeded to examine the bust through his 
eye-glass, with the intuitive appreciation 
of his race for defects or beauty in art. 

Public opinion held its breath when 
Count Guigione walked around the pedes- 
tal as if it represented a charmed circle, 
surveyed the head on every side, scanning 
alike the profile and the pose, placing him- 
self in the drollest attitudes, meanwhile, 
witli that unconsciousness of self which is 
also another national characteristic. 

“Very good,” he proclaimed, in his best 
English. “Very well executed. I have 
but one leetle criticism to make, my friend. 
The ear is not quite as delicately shaped, 
eh ? But then who could hope to repro- 
duce the ear of Miss Bayard ?” 

He smiled, and glanced at Celia with his 
most paternal expression. Celia smiled in 
response, blushed, and turned away. It 
seemed to her that all the people in the 
studio must be scrutinizing her ears. The 
perception dawned on her mind, at the 
same time, that Count Guigione was a very 
nice and amiable old gentleman. 

Public opinion began to take form, and 
commendation to acquire substance. De- 
cidedly John Winter w r as a young man of 
talent ; only that criticism of Count Guigi- 
one about the ear was very discriminating. 
Certainly the ear was large, out of all pro- 
portion, almost flabby. Any one could see 
that. 

“Did you hear the count?” inquired 
Miss Bevis - Smith, in a significant under- 
tone. 

Mrs. Jefferson made no reply. The ex- 
pression of her face was stony. She was 
ill at ease, but would not withdraw too 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

soon. If all the world was present, she 
must be, as well. She was half tempted to 
brave all, walk up boldly to Mrs. Bayard, 
and thus publicly make peace. In nine 
chances out of ten a natural courtesy 
would prevent an adversary from not re- 
ceiving such overtures with civility. If 
she was humiliated by a rebuff instead? 
No, Mrs. Jefferson did not dare to venture 
it. She therefore talked with Albert Den- 
nis, and invited him to her musical party 
next week, in order to conceal her chagrin, 
and with the intention of ignoring John 
Winter on the same occasion. 

Miss Bevis-Smith received an unexpect- 
ed diversion at this juncture, and threaten- 
ed to desert Mrs. Jefferson for the enemy 
in the most alarming manner. Her poodle 
had escaped from her arms, and, with the 
sagacity peculiar to this little animal, leap- 
ed on Celia Bayard’s dress with a friendly 
wagging of the tail. Had Celia repulsed 
these advances, the milk of human kind- 
ness would have inevitably curdled in 
the veins of Bijou’s mistress. Instead, the 
young girl seated herself in the corner, 
partly to escape the embarrassing praise of 
Count Guigione, received the affable poo- 
dle on her knee, fondled the ball of white 
wool, and even sought a bonbon in her 
pocket, which he ate daintily from her 
palm. 

“ I once owned a beauty just like you,” 
exclaimed Celia, and Bijou licked her 
cheek with a tiny red tongue. 

Then she became aware of the presence 
of Miss Bevis-Smith beaming on her. 

“ Is it your dog ?” she inquired, rising. 

She had never seen Miss Bevis-Smith be- 
fore, much as that lady had become inter- 
ested in her during the winter. 

“Most extraordinary! Bijou so seldom 
likes strangers,” said Miss Bevis-Smith, 
much moved by the incident. 

The poodle replied by a wiry bark, and 
was smuggled out of the studio in a state 
of great excitement. 

Mrs. Jefferson observed the little incident 
from the corner of her eye. She began to 
doubt herself. 

The principal event of the day was in 
store. The crowd came and went; Miss 
Bevis-Smith and Mrs. Jefferson had van- 
ished ; Mrs. Bayard, with a final glance at 
the mute image of her daughter, had just 
departed, when an old gentleman in a 
brown wig entered. He nodded, almost 
curtly, to John Winter, and planted himself 


86 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


before the bust, with his hands resting on 
a stout cane. 

“ Humph ! This is the likeness of a 
young girl I just met outside the door,” he 
finally observed. “A very truthful and 
vivid resemblance, I may say. She was 
smiling at the moment, and — yes — the eyes 
were widely -opened in an expression of 
meditation, half of surprise.” 

The stranger spoke in a jerky, abrupt 
fashion, as of one accustomed to muse 
aloud. 

John Winter was amused. The old 
sculptor joined him, and stood stroking 
his beard thoughtfully. 

“ If I believed you would be equally suc- 
cessful, I would leave you an order,” he 
continued, with a sharp glance at John 
Winter. “My two grandchildren died 
within a day of each other — scarlet-fever — 
mother heart-broken, of course. Here is 
all that remains of them on earth.” 

With these words he disengaged a lock- 
et from his watch-chain, opened it, and re- 
vealed two tiny photographs of children’s 
heads. John Winter studied the faces in 
silence. 

“ Well, can you do it?” inquired the old 
gentleman, quickly. 

“ I will answer for him,” said the mas- 
ter, gravely. 

“ Ah, Mr. Blackwood ! I saw you last at 
Cincinnati, in ’49. Doubtless you have for- 
gotten the circumstance.” 

Abraham Blackwood had forgotten the 
old gentleman in the brown wig, and was 
not sufficiently proficient in the polite art 
of dissimulation to conceal the fact. 

The matter was arranged. John Winter 
undertook to reproduce the heads of the 
little dead children from the shadowy guide 
afforded by the locket, and the grandfather 
finally departed, well satisfied with the proj- 
ect of thus surprising the bereaved mother. 

At length the company went away, and 
the studio was once more deserted. Albert 
Dennis had said, in a friendly tone, 

“Your fortune is made, John !” 

Deep gratitude toward all the world well- 
ed up in the heart of John Winter when he 
was left alone. Especially did his whole 
nature expand toward the young girl Ce- 
lia, whom he associated with his joy and 
triumph. He was free to work! He no 
longer groped toward his aim blindly, 
because it had become clearly revealed to 
him. 

In covering the head once more with the 


cloth, the young man enclosed the pedestal 
with his arm and kissed the image. 

“ If I succeed, all will be owing to you !” 
he murmured softly; and then, as he wvas 
alone with his dreams, he again touched 
the face with his lips, as if anticipating 
some subtle fire to be distilled through his 
veins from the contact. 

He set the bust aside, but it remained 
clearly visible to him. From dawn until 
dusk the young man had worked on it, 
without pausing to eat, unless admonished 
to do so by the master. Often in the night 
he started from sleep, haunted by a defect 
revealed to him in dreams, and hastened 
into the deserted studio to see if the fault 
existed. He meditated, wrought, and re- 
touched. More than once he would have 
destroyed the original study, in sudden 
and capricious scorn of its deficiencies, had 
not the old sculptor’s hand restrained his 
violence. 

“ Patience ! The outline is good ; im- 
prove the detail,” this man admonished his 
pupil, who never had evinced patience for 
his own work. 

Now the bust was completed — if any la- 
bor is ever finished — and ready to be con- 
verted into marble. The moment was a 
crisis with John Winter. Outside the walls 
of this studio he was forgotten, as each one 
resumed their respective interests and oc- 
cupations. Within the narrow space of 
room the night deepened, and all the plas- 
ter limbs and heads acquired their most 
ghostly and fantastic aspect. 

The young man paced up and down the 
floor rapidly, his arm moving in involun- 
tary gestures, and words escaping his lips. 
The limbs and heads on the shelves seem- 
ed to mock at him as he passed, and in- 
quire, “ Why do you not unite us into a 
snow -woman of the brook?” His brain 
became crowded with vivid images which 
imperiously claimed outward expression. 
Others believed in his power to create, 
since orders had been given him. This 
encouragement stimulated a certain ele- 
ment of faith in himself. He might have 
pursued his way for years in the same rou- 
tine — studying, copying, and musing— had 
he not paused in the square of the Duomo, 
on the evening of the funeral of the Prince 
del Giglio, beside Mrs. Bayard’s carriage. 
Would he have dared to test his own 
strength so soon had he not read the en- 
couragement to make the attempt in the 
soft eyes of Celia, who had divined his ne- 


87 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

cessity before he was aware of it? Pro- 
found natures frequently thus construe the 
light touch of frivolous ones. 

John Winter passed the night in the si- 
lent studio. His thought may have dark- 
ened all things in those tranquil hours, 
since brooding discouragement was the 
very atmosphere of the old sculptor’s 
abode. In the elasticity of youth hope 
may have breathed in his ear Mrs. Brown- 
ing’s words : 

“ I was born to poet uses, 

To love all things set above me, all of good, and all 
of fair. 

Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we are wont to 
call the Muses ; 

And in Nympholeptic climbing, poets pass from 
mount to star.” 

Toward morning John Winter lighted 
the lamp, and began to sketch on a sheet 
of paper. His attitude was the same as on 
the deck of the Swallow , so many years be- 
fore, when the old sculptor had been called 
to admire his first crude effort at portrait- 
ure. The group of friendly sailors were 
lacking, and the mate pausing, with a good- 
humored smile, to observe the progress of 
the work. John’s touch was more bold 
and assured now, and the image he strove 
to reproduce had no earthly semblance. 
Soon the paper shadowed forth his de- 
sign, made with swift, sharp strokes of the 
pencil. 

Iris, seated, with wings half- furled, her 
hands loosely clasped, and one foot lightly 
poised on the earth, awaited the commands 
of Juno, in her attitude more of expectation 
than repose. The small head was Celia 
Bayard’s idealized, and the smile hovering 
about her lips was unmistakably like that 
of the bust. 

The light of the lamp paled in the dawn 
before he had finished his task. He arose, 
moved the pedestal, and uncovered the head 
of Celia, in order that the first rays of the 
rising sun might fall on it. 

“You have done much for me,” he said, 
aloud. “ Perhaps the time may come when 
I can be of service to you.” 

Then to the weary senses of John the 
young girl’s face darkened strangely — be- 
came severe and sad. A cloud had passed 
over the rising sun. 

It was a glorious spring morning. John 
Winter went forth into the street instead 
of seeking sleep. The dull oblivion of 
slumber is sacrilege to such a dawn. He 
crossed the Ponte Vecchio, took a cup of 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

coffee at a restaurant, and gained the little 
piazza of the Church of Santa Felicita. 
Here a paved street, like a mere fissure be- 
tween high walls, ascends the hill. John 
climbed the steep way, without other pur- 
pose than to gain a glimpse of open coun- 
try. 

The quarter is less Italian than German 
in aspect. One might readily fancy a frag- 
ment of Nuremberg inserted between the 
Boboli Gardens and the city wall. The 
paved path, lined with houses of different 
heights, angles of brown wall, tufted with 
olive - trees, a garden high above, with a 
bridge .spanning the street, and adorned 
with broken urns, presented a novel ele- 
ment to the young man, who was unfamil- 
iar with the spot. 

An old woman, with a blue kerchief 
knotted over her head, stood beside a door, 
where a company of babies were pent in 
by a protecting board. An officer, in uni- 
form of black and silver, stepped from shad- 
ow into the brilliant sunshine descending 
the hill. A fat man, wearing a fez, filled 
two jars of Etruscan shape at a pump. An 
old gentleman, with white mustache and 
dignified mien, his hands clasped behind 
his back, paced slowly before the door of 
Galileo’s house, with the bust above the 
arch. 

John paused and entered the humble 
portal. He saw the philosopher’s garden 
through a barred window. Now it is a 
neglected patch of earth, where a young 
woman in a yellow gown washes at a tub, 
while children play about. The sundial 
has been whitewashed. 

This young woman laughed and shook 
back her black hair at sight of John Win- 
ter. The signore could enter if he pleased, 
but there was not .much to see. 

Instead, he climbed the hill. Up above 
was the gate of San Giorgio, and a long 
stretch of convent wall used as a soldiers’ 
barracks, the dazzling whiteness of this 
lower wall contrasting with the orange- 
tinted ramparts of the belvedere behind, 
where a sentinel paced, outlined against 
the blue sky. John passed through the 
quaint gate, still imbedded in the city wall, 
yet forgotten by all but the vigilant cus- 
tom-collector. Above his head the fresco 
of the Madonna and the saints, set to guard 
the town centuries ago, still glowed with 
faded colors ; while on the outer side of the 
portal, confronting such enemies as should 
approach, the bass-relief of St. George, 


88 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


mounted, still spurs toward the dragon, 
danger. 

Beyond, the sculptor found what he 
sought in the exaltation of his present 
mood — the freshness of the spring morn- 
ing. The breeze w T as scented with flowers 
and fresh earth; birds sang in the bud- 
ding hedges. 

The city below sparkled in a silver mist ; 
the mountains already wore their most 
translucent hues. Here, through an open 
door in a high wall, w T as visible an ex- 
panse of meadow extending in a wave of 
emerald-green corn, flecked with poppies, 
to the base of Galileo’s tower. There the 
way-side shrine of the Madonna had re- 
ceived as tribute a branch of lilies, placed 
at her feet by some passing contadina. A 
group of soldiers in linen jackets lounged 
under a tree in the shade. Two hollow- 
cheeked men conversed together in whis- 
pers at an angle of the wall, with stealthy 
glances around, and the aspect of conspira- 
tors. 

The little Church of San Giorgio was 
open, and John entered. Mass was being 
performed by a young priest with a deli- 
cate face ; several old women knelt in the 
corner. But church ceremonies possessed 
no interest and inspired no reverence in 
John Winter. He was the old sculptor’s 
disciple. The rich altar from Fiesole, con- 
verted into a pulpit in this church, other- 
wise so barren and poor, alone attracted 
him. He paused long in admiration of the 
yellow marble, the curious unfolding scenes 
of this relic, and his footstep echoed on the 
tiled floor as the young priest chanted. 

His soul calmed by this morning bath 
of sunshine and balmy atmosphere, John 
Winter returned down the steep street in a 
more sober and practical mood. He de- 
cided to no longer share the old sculptor’s 
roof and bread. His place in the studio 
he would gladly retain, but he must live 
elsewhere and maintain himself. Nay, if 
the day should ever come when illness as- 
sailed Abraham Blackwood, he must earn 
the sustenance of both. The prospect did 
not dismay him. He formed a resolution 
on this spring morning which was to de- 
velop his after-life. Celia Bayard had 
given him the first means of gaining an 
honorable independence ; but could human 
comprehension divine, as w r ell, the influ- 
ence on her own destiny this decision of 
John Winter’s would wield ? 

He spent the morning searching for 


quarters sufficiently modest to meet his re- 
quirements. At length he found what he 
desired. In an old palace of the Oltz’ Arno 
quarter the sixth story was divided by the 
characteristic loggia. He was able to rent 
two rooms opening on this loggia, which 
delighted him. The young man did not 
attempt a menage requiring a servant and 
a kitchen. He was amply satisfied with 
the more simple arrangement of taking his 
morning coffee en route for the studio, and 
of dining at a truly national and indiffer- 
ently-clean trattoria of an evening, where 
he assimilated Italian dishes, redolent of 
garlic and oil, with the mellifluous tongue. 

The establishment of John Winter in 
his new home, so momentous to himself, 
made no stir in Florentine society. The 
old sculptor and Albert Dennis came here, 
drank a bottle of Yin Santo, and smoked a 
cigar in honor of the installation ; but Mrs: 
General Jefferson was ignorant or disdain- 
ful of the change, while Miss Bevis- Smith 
failed to inquire of any one if John Winter 
would entertain during the approaching 
season. 


CHAPTER IY. 

PRINCE CHARMING. 

The Count Carmine Guigione arose one 
morning soon after the events narrated in 
the last chapter, and partook of his first 
meal — a draught of cold water and a small 
cup of black coffee, with a morsel of dry 
bread. 

The Guigione family was as noble' and 
illustrious as those of its connections, the 
Yallambroni and the Giglio, only the pass- 
ing years had dealt more severely with its 
prosperity. The old Guigione palace had 
parted with its piano mobile long before, 
and the invading army of indifferent ten- 
ants had claimed one story after another, 
until the count, last remaining descendant, 
had been driven up into one gaunt cham- 
ber beneath the roof, and esteemed himself 
fortunate to retain this nook. He was left 
to guard the emblem of his race — three pop- 
pies in a sheaf, with the motto, “ Per non 
dormire ” — as best he could, while the rent 
received precariously from the poor class 
of his lodgers -was scarcely adequate to cov- 
er the accumulating rust of mortgages on 
the property. 

Count Guigione drank his coffee and 
meditated. He was about to engage in a 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


89 


little play which would call into requisi- 
tion Yus, finesse, his patience, and his dissim- 
ulation of actual thought, under a frank 
and charming exterior. 

Count Guigione was the child of too old 
a civilization, balancing power in every 
phase of violence and subtlety in past cen- 
turies, not to be crafty. He was very poor, 
frugal as an anchorite in his habits, and 
with difficulty paid occasionally the bill of 
that long-suffering and forbearing tailor 
who attired him so faultlessly for the Cas- 
cine. 

The chamber he occupied -was lofty, cold, 
and barren — the floor of red brick tiles, and 
the deep embrasures of the uncurtained 
windows of stone. On the wall hung the 
faded portrait of a man in black robes— a 
Guigione who had chosen a religious life — j 
and opposite a cavalier in curled and pow- 
dered Louis Quatorze wig, blue velvet coat,] 
and orders on his breast. The cavalier had! 
suffered in the fall of his race, and a hole 
pierced the canvas just where his aquiline 
nose should have been portrayed. A faded 
screen partitioned off the upper end of this 
vast room, behind which was an arm-chair 
of worn satin embroideries and tarnished 
gilt legs, a sofa covered with chintz, with a 
square bit of carpet serving as rug before ! 
it, a table, and a narrow iron bedstead 
adorned with a green silk quilt. 

Such guests as sought Count Guigione j 
must wait in that cheerless space of outer, 
salon, where the nun smiled in a wan fash-j 
ion at the opposite cavalier without a nose. 
Count Guigione seldom received at homej 
and the circumstance did not disturb him. I 
The old gentleman was ever on the wing; ! 
he held rendezvous at the club, the caf(5, | 
about the carriages grouped in the Cascine. 
The -word “home” had no meaning to his 
ear, and would have possessed none had he 
been a far richer man. The curb-stone was 
his home, and the table placed outside of 
a restaurant door, where the pedestrians 
brushed his shoulder in passing, and hun- 
gry little beggar children eyed the sugar- 
bowl wistfully; his drawing-room, the box 
at the opera or theatre. The nook beneath 
the roof was a place in which to sleep, and 
from which to escape into the streets at as 
early an hour as possible. 

Poverty rested lightly on his spirit; he 
even laughed merrily with his friends over 
an empty purse. Incredible as it may ap- 
pear, the misfortunes of this nobleman had 
reached a still lower ebb some years pre- 


vious, when he had extricated himself from 
.serious embarrassment with truly commend- 
able adroitness. There had been days when 
the tiny cup of morning coffee was the sole 
stimulant of the twelve hours, when the 
count had received into his pocket-hand- 
kerchief a portion of those cold boiled 
beans so largely consumed by the people, 
and vended in little carts, or ladled with a 
wooden spoon from an iron pot on a street- 
corner. A new order of things had become 
established : Florence had been selected as 
the seat of government for United Italy ; 
the king, Victor Emanuel, had taken his 
residence at the Pitti Palace ; the marriage 
fetes of the Prince Humbert and the young 
Princess Marguerite had been celebrated on 
the Arno bank. The Count Guigione be- 
longed to the party of the deposed Grand- 
duke of Tuscany and the priesthood. He 
was too old to seek government appoint- 
ment under the new king, whom he de- 
spised with the finest Florentine scorn of 
the barbaric Piedmontese and the men of 
the North. He was attached to his o^yn 
work; he loved the stones of his natives 
city. 

The son of an intimate friend, now dead, 
a young man of statuesque beauty, had been 
forced to accept the post of accountant in 
the office of a public cab-stand. It is true 
that the cockers of the stand, with an in- 
stinctive perception of the propriety of 
things, addressed him as il Signor Conte; 
but the statuesque young nobleman must 
lose caste, starve, or commit suicide. He 
chose the ignoble bread of labor. 

Count Guigione shuddered, but he fonnqd 
a resolution : he set himself diligently to 
the study of the English language, of which 
he had acquired a good knowledge in his 
youth, and he went into the society of for- 
eigners visiting his city. In time it came 
to be understood that not only was Count 
Guigione on easy and pleasant terms with 
the stranger resident in Florence, but he 
was a reliable source of information con- 
cerning those just arrived or about to ar- 
rive. The Russian and French colonies 
had always been frequented by him. He 
enjoyed the importance his new role gave 
him. His own class did not fail to receive 
him with increased affability, and the trades- 
people acquired an attitude of respect, since 
his words of praise or blame with the fores- 
tieri, by reason of whom trade languished 
or throve, would weigh heavily in favor or 
against each individual shopkeeper. 


90 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


As for the stranger colony, Count Gui- 
gione became indispensable to its happi- 
ness. Here was a noble who delighted in 
English literature, who sighed that more 
of the Anglo - Saxon virtues were not al- 
ready ingrafted on his own race, whose 
professed admiration for Britannic stabili- 
ty was only equalled by his enthusiasm for 
American freedom and enterprise. Was it 
probable that the British Lion or the Amer- 
ican Eagle would close the door in the face 
of such a gentleman ? Besides, Count Gui- 
gione was so charmingly useful. He w r as 
not above arranging a ball, ordering a sup- 
per, and leading the cotillon. He knew 
everything, and his suggestions were al- 
ways admirable and in good taste. A lady 
could rely on his advice in a masquerade 
costume, discussed confidentially in her 
boudoir. If some tiresome old pedant ar- 
rived who wished to pore over manuscripts 
and musty volumes in the National or Ric- 
cardi libraries, Count Guigione conducted 
him to the requisite shelf, and left the ped- 
ant persuaded that their studies and opin- 
ions were identical. Again, if fast young 
men appeared, Count Guigione evinced the 
same tolerance for their youthful follies 
which characterized Filippo Strozzi in his 
day ; nay, if the young men must play cards 
and gamble recklessly, it was the old Count 
Guigione who arranged the game for them. 
This gentle tolerance for the sins of his 
neighbor might emanate from a truly Chris- 
tian charity, from great personal prudence, 
or from a condition of society already dead 
to the higher instincts of virtue. 

Having drunk his coffee, the count light- 
ed a cigarette, and began to move restless- 
ly about his room, wrapped in a cloak 
lined wfith red cloth. His face was sallow, 
wrinkled, and old in the unpitying morning 
light which came through the uncurtained 
casement. Soon he seated himself at the 
table and w T rote a note. The note was ad- 
dressed to the Princess del Giglio, and con- 
tained this sentence : 

“ If Andrea returns from Paris to-day, I 
beg of you to urge his appearance at the 
concert this evening, where his violin will 
be quite indispensable.” 

The note finished, he sealed it with his 
crest, and proceeded to make a more elab- 
orate and careful toilet than usual. The 
weather was fine, as he could perceive from 
his windows. Count Guigione anticipated 
much from the results of this day, and a 
clear sky smiled on his efforts. 


An hour later he emerged from the dark 
door below into the street, his raiment fault- 
less, and an overcoat folded gracefully on 
his arm. He stepped lightly on the tips 
of his small boots through the debris of the 
narrow by-ways, and delivered his note per- 
sonally at the gate of the Giglio palace. 

“ Has the prince returned from Paris ?” 
he demanded* of the porter, a florid old 
man in green livery, with a yellow waist- 
coat. 

No, the young prince had not arrived. 
Count Guigione left his note, and departed 
with a furrow of anxiety, deepening almost 
to a frown, between his eyebrows. The ser- 
vant paused a moment to gaze up and 
down the street, twirling the envelope in 
his fingers, blooming in the dark portal like 
a gigantic flower, then slowly withdrew, 
and the iron gate clanged behind him. 

At four o’clock Count Guigione, still 
carrying his overcoat, and wearing fresh 
pearl-gray gloves, presented himself at the 
hotel of Mrs. Bayard, and was greeted w r ith 
the smiles invariably bestowed upon him 
by feminine lips. 

After inspecting Celia’s bust in the studio 
of John Winter, Count Guigione had lost 
no time in being formally presented to the 
lady by her banker. He had not met her 
in society, and the conduct of Mrs. General 
Jefferson had set at rest his curiosity con- 
cerning this stranger attired in gray satin, 
accompanied by a charming daughter, who 
had appeared after the little dinner-party. 
In his experience of human nature, the 
count would never have believed it possi- 
ble that Mrs. Jefferson would suffer to es- 
cape the golden carp wdiich had entered 
her net. Clearly, then, Mrs. Bayard was 
not a golden carp. Why did he not see 
her in other salons ? 

Gradually suspicion and disquiet had 
succeeded this first impression in the mind 
of Count Guigione, who had acquired the 
habit of studying his little world profound- 
ly. What if Mrs. Jefferson had made a 
blunder? What if he were made the dupe 
of the blunder, and the fish swam on to 
other waters, where more skilful anglers 
than himself w T ould profit by his obtuse- 
ness ? The count jumped at the very idea. 
He obtuse! He had judged too much by 
appearances already; no time was to be 
lost in repairing the error. Perhaps it was 
now too late ! 

“We could not have finer weather,” he 
said, saluting Mrs. Bayard and Celia. “ Dear 


91 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

maclame, I trust that I am to have the 
pleasure of showing what our Florence 
actually is, before you condemn us and pass 
on to Rome.” 

“ I have not condemned you,” said Mrs. 
Bayard, with animation. 

“ The winter has been very unfavorable, 
so much rain and fog ; but then more rain 
has fallen at Rome. I assure you it is true, 
madame; we have the calendar record. 
Will you not give us a further trial, to en- 
able our winning back a place in your es- 
teem ?” 

“You are very kind to interest yourself 
in our pleasure,” replied Mrs. Bayard. 

Was there not a charming flattery in the 
native of a beautiful and historical city 
thus desiring to make an agreeable impres- 
sion on a stranger? Was there not, in the 
count’s manner of claiming this concession 
of Mrs. Bayard, a frankness and a soft per- 
suasiveness quite irresistible ? 

“I confess my first experience at the 
house of Mrs. General Jefferson was dis- 
agreeable, and I refrained from a further 
attempt to enter society here,” said Mrs. 
Bayard, then checked herself. 

The count made a little gesture of con- 
cern and deprecation. The trio entered 
Mrs. Bayard’s carriage, which awaited them, 
and drove out the Porta al Prato. A road, 
level and white, stretched before them, bor- 
dered with vegetable gardens and mean 
houses; it was the ugliest of city suburbs. 
Wending along this route, they reached at 
length a gate, which admitted them to a 
wide sweep of avenue, and finally paused 
before an inner gate, flanking a sombre and 
stately structure. The count rung the bell 
for the porter, and, with a little formula of 
speech, this most amiable of cicerones led 
the ladies within the precincts of the Villa 
Careggi, favorite residence of Lorenzo the 
Magnificent, where he held his school of 
philosophy, and where he died. 

The Villa Careggi on a day in June! 
Who that ever thus beheld it can speedily 
forget its charm? The brown mansion, 
massive and plain, with loggia and macliic- 
olated parapet above, and that aspect of a 
fortress peculiar to old Italian houses in 
the country*; the sunny space of garden ; the 
terraces, with their balustrades of gray stone, 
and the steps adorned with urns ; the foun- 
tains and shrubbery, now silent and desert- 
ed. The eye of Lorenzo de’ Medici com- 
manded a wide expanse from this favorite 
spot of blooming valley and the circle of 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

hills beyond, which in the summer sunset 
blend the richest hues — purple, blue, and 
crimson — as they melt on the horizon line; 
a thread of river glistens behind the Cas- 
cine trees; the green slope toward Fiesole 
is dotted with white villas and church 
tow T ers. 

“ Oh, the roses !” cried Celia, pausing 
w T ith delight. 

“You like them?” said the count, al- 
ways smiling. 

Surely roses here surpass the treasures 
of other gardens, even in the City of Flow- 
ers, and can be compared only with those 
of moist and warm tropical islands. Celia 
found herself surrounded, as it were, with 
roses clustering in pink pyramids; white 
roses, as large as dahlias, nodding in the 
breeze, and shedding their snowy petals on 
the gravel path, thus forming a carpet fit 
for the fairies; roses of a velvet texture, 
shading from crimson to black; and roses 
like globes of mellow sunshine, with creamy 
petals folded over hearts of gold. 

“What a lovely spot!” murmured the 
young girl. 

The count heard, but made no response. 
Then they entered the villa, now tenanted 
occasionally by the owner, but which it is 
impossible to people in thought with more 
modern occupants than Lorenzo and his 
court. All was silent, subdued, and desert- 
ed — from the well in the court, with its tra- 
dition of crime, and its depths as dark as 
the Medici conscience, to the suite of state 
apartments above, cool and lofty, where ev- 
ery casement w T as shrouded, and every foot- 
fall aroused an echo of the past. In this 
harmonious twilight atmosphere Lorenzo’s 
pale, strangely forbidding face, with the cru- 
el, wide, inflexible mouth and thin lips, look- 
ed down from the wall ; busts of poets and 
philosophers occupied niches; Savonarola 
preached repentance with uplifted arm, and 
pleaded for the liberties of Florence. Here 
in the chamber of death, where Medici des- 
potism yielded up the sceptre to a higher 
sovereign, the emblem of the race, with its 
three balls, still adorns the fading draperies 
of bed and wall. 

Once Savonarola stood beside this bed, the 
priest, the reformer; and the dying prince, 
whose Platonic philosophy availed him lit- 
tle, wincing under the probe of this great 
spiritual surgeon, gathered the pride of his 
house about him like a garment, sullenly 
turned his face to the wall, and gave no 
sign. 


GO 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

The last window of the state suite of 
apartments opens on the lovely loggia, with 
its marble pavement, frescoed ceiling, and 
views of the surrounding country. What 
a spot for meditation on summer moon- 
light evenings, after a sultry day, in which 
a Medici, however magnificent, might glad- 
ly repose, weary of the intrigues of the city 
and of powerful neighbors ! 

Count Guigione, most affable and inter- 
esting of cicerones, explained all, and re- 
hearsed the memorable scenes which had 
here transpired with the vivid, sympathet- 
ic power peculiar to his people, in abun- 
dant and graphic gesticulations, in mobile 
change of feature from grave to droll, and 
in fluency of language. 

Mrs. Bayard listened, fascinated, and ad- 
miring all she beheld. Celia passed under 
the sway of the count’s influence, as she 
had entered the atmosphere of Abraham 
Blackwood’s studio, living for the moment 
in the history of an old villa, with its rose- 
scented gardens. 

They climbed the narrow stair to that 
curious gallery beneath the roof which en- 
circles the whole mansion at this lofty 
height, and doubtless once served to recon- 
noitre the land. Each open space of this 
gallery framed a distinct picture of rosy 
sunset clouds drifting across the zenith, of 
gorgeous summer warmth imj^arted to all 
nature, the distant city glowing in the 
light, until its Duomo and Campanile re- 
sembled fairy structures of ivory and pearl. 
Far below, the shadow of the venerable 
trees began to lengthen across the terrace ; 
a mastiff rattled his chain in his kennel 
and barked, the sound sharp in the con- 
trasting stillness of open country ; the me- 
tallic clip of the contcidind's shears among 
the ilex branches was audible from time to 
time, and the roses shed their petals softly 
on the ground. To what end? Perhaps 
to be brushed by the ghostly touch of 
Lorenzo the Magnificent, or Savonarola’s 
garments, each haunting the scene of their 
earthly pilgrimage in the night. 

Later, Count Guigione dined with Mrs. 
Bayard and her daughter. The dinner was 
no less agreeable than the afternoon drive 
had been. The guest lightened to a mar- 
vellous degree the ennui of that private 
table in a hotel which Mrs. Bayard and 
Celia had shared for so long a time. The 
flow of conversation was easy and gay in 
tone, the interchange of confidences spon- 
taneous. The lady’s ruffled dignity was 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

soothed by the count’s presence, as if mag- 
netized by a silken touch at once appreci- 
ative and cordial. She found herself tell- 
ing him what she thought of Mrs. General 
Jefferson, and a warning glance from Celia 
did not prevent her from adding that she 
did not believe the lady’s husband had 
ever occupied the high rank assigned him, 
by his widow, in the regular army. 

The count listened in sympathetic si- 
lence, his manner encouraging, although 
the distinction of official ranks in the 
American army may have been vague to 
his own mind. What he divined readily 
was that Mrs. Bayard preferred to believe 
Mrs. Jefferson an impostor of some sort, 
and he decided to also so consider the 
widow, without too clearly betraying such 
conviction. As for Celia, she manifestly 
flirted with Count Guigione, now smiling 
on him graciously, and now pouting, as if 
his flowery compliments were not suffi- 
ciently honeyed and well chosen. She felt 
as if she had known him a long time. 

The courteous old gentleman completed 
his triumph by insisting on hearing Celia 
sing and perform on the piano after din- 
ner, when his surprise at her manifold ac- 
complishments brought a glow of jjride to 
the cheek of her mother. 

“You are a prodigy of talent, mademoi- 
selle ; I salute you,” he said, kissing Celia’s 
hand, with that mixture of mockery in his 
tones which made his companions laugh. 
“ Now, dear madame,” he added, consult- 
ing his watch, “we must go to our con- 
cert.” 

The concert of which the count spoke, 
and to which he proposed conducting Mrs. 
Bayard and Celia, was given by amateur 
performers in the Sala Filarmonica. The 
public had been informed that such per- 
sons as desired to aid the cause of the 
Foundling Hospital, and at the same time 
hear any number of marchionesses and 
countesses sing on a real stage, could en- 
joy this privilege on the payment of five 
francs. 

It happened that the charitable instincts 
of Mrs. Jefferson and Miss Bevis-Smith had 
responded to this appeal. The two ladies, 
at an early hour, had climbed the narrow 
stone stair, which no floral decorations can 
render attractive, and entered the hall of 
the Filarmonica. Here they seated them- 
selves, and scanned their neighbors, pre- 
pared to enjoy the evening. No toilet, 
fresh or faded, escaped their criticism ; no 


93 *, 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE ; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


woman, young or passee, evaded their 
searching regard. Few of the men failed to 
receive a passing glance of approval or 
condemnation from these sharp-shooters, 
whose weapons were ever ready to sweep 
the field. 

“ Is that the Marchesa N , in red and 

yellow ?” inquired Mrs. Jefferson, behind 
her fan. 

“Yes. "VYhat a fright ! Goodness knows 
how she can have ever been called pretty !” 
murmured Miss Bevis-Smitli, opening the 
programme. “ That must be the American 
girl who made herself so outrageous in 
Vienna, dear Mrs. Jefferson. No ; further 
on the right, with dyed golden hair and a 
bad complexion. I was not aware she was 
here.” 

“Ah, yes! then her companion is the 
English lady, dear Miss Bevis-Smith, who 
married the nobleman of Lucca, and is so 
tremendously fast at Rome. Her very eye- 
lashes are colored. When will women 
learn, in painting themselves like the ac- 
tresses of an opera bouffe, that they are not 
on the stage and before the foot-lights ?” 

“ Sad, is it not? If they could only see 
themselves, poor creatures!” sighed Miss 
Bevis-Smith. 

“Who is this gentleman with a long 
brown beard, accompanied by the youth in 
spectacles ?” whispered Mrs. Jefferson. 

“ What ! you do not know him ? The 
Count von Arnlieim, banished from Berlin 
by Prince Bismarck.” 

“ Is that the duke over yonder — the thin, 
sallow man with hollow cheeks? What a 
wretch he must be ! They say he has 
gambled away the whole of his wife’s dot 
already. I am sure^ he looks wicked 
enough for anything.” 

“ The Cookwells have not come this 
evening. Is it true, dear Mrs. Jefferson, 
that they have just lost all their money in 
the railway, or the pearl-fisheries in which 
they were interested, and must return to 
America ?” 

“Very likely; and a good thing it will 
be for that silly Mrs. Cookwell to go home. 
I confess I am often ashamed of my own 
people abroad ; they do not always know 
how to behave themselves.” 

Mrs. Jefferson spoke in a complacent 
tone ; Miss Bevis-Smith repressed a smile. 

Then the concert began with a prelimi- 
nary quaver of a somewhat ineffective or- 
chestra of three instruments. All about 
them resounded the hum of conversation, 


and the hall became filled with a rainbow 
of silks and laces. 

Our two critics were in their element: 
they spared neither the vocalization nor 
the instrumental performance of the great 
ladies who gathered in a galaxy of stars 
on that amateur stage. Indeed, there w T as 
ample opportunity for criticism, and the 
ripple of professional rivalry between their 
respective instructors was perceptible in 
the audience. If Italy is the cradle of vocal 
music, nowhere else can such meagre mu- 
sical entertainments be found. The noble 
ladies shrieked and trilled ear -piercing 
arias, twanged the strings of the harp in 
the graceful attitude of sirens, or tortured 
the keys of the piano with their delicate 
fingers. The audience applauded, and the 
professional rivals exchanged glances of 
open hostility or secret intelligence with 
their respective partisans. 

“ Did you ever hear such a noise in your 
life ?” said Mrs. Jefferson. 

“ My head aches,” returned Miss Bevis- 
Smith. 

Neither of the ladies would have missed 
the concert on any consideration. 

“ I have heard no singing ,” resumed Mrs. 
Jefferson. 

Suddenly she paused and raised her 
head ; her gaze became fixed. 

Count Guigione, latest arrival, appeared, 
and became the cynosure of all eyes. He 
was not alone. He conducted to a seat, 
with much empressement of manner, Mrs. 
Bayard, in the identical dress of gray satin 
and black Chantilly lace so well remember- 
ed by one person in the audience at least; 
and Celia, in the blue draperies which she 
would fain have worn to Mrs. Jefferson’s 
Thursday evening. Large diamonds spar- 
kled in the ears of the mother, and pearls 
of value encircled the throat of the daugh- 
ter. 

Mrs. Jefferson half rose in her seat, and 
sunk back again overwhelmed. Count 
Guigione had thus publicly gone over to 
the enemy. Celia, radiant, amused, and 
happy, had scarcely taken her place when 
she uttered a slight exclamation of sur- 
prise, and looked toward the stage. The 
count followed her glance quickly. 

The young Prince del Giglio had at that 
moment appeared, and was greeted with 
applause. The prince, in evening costume, 
with a flower in his button-hole, gracefully 
acknowledged the greeting, and placed his 
violin on the piano. Then, with the same 


94 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

composure, he slowly removed his gloves 
and surveyed the company. An audience 
seldom embarrasses an Italian accustomed 
to all grades of public life. These prelim- 
inaries adjusted, he took up his violin and 
began to play, with considerable proficiency 
of touch, a fantasia of his own composition. 
The trifle was sufficiently airy to persuade 
the listener that Cherubini w T as indeed 
dead ; but the beauty of the young man, the 
elegant ease of his manner, and, above all, 
the good-humored zeal of his performance, 
won cordial acclamation. 

Count Guigione watched the girl beside 
him without appearing to do so. Her sur- 
prise at the advent of the prince, and her 
subsequent absorbed attention, did not es- 
cape him. 

“You have met the Prince del Giglio? 
No ! Permit me to present him, then,” he 
said, quietly. 

There was a vacant seat beyond Mrs. 
Bayard — a fortunate coincidence, for which 
Count Guigione may have been responsible. 
Before Celia could dream of such a result, 
Prince Charming had descended from the 
stage, responding lightly right and left to 
the greetings of his friends, and was seated 
beside her, conversing with Mrs. Bayard in 
a tone of deferential politeness. 

Incredible happiness ! From time to 
time his eyes rested on Celia with that 
swift homage of admiration which made 
her tremble. His glance sought the bou- 
quet culled for her by the gardener at the 
Villa Careggi, with a subtle meaning. 

“I have just returned from Paris,” he 
murmured, in that tender undertone of 
mutual confidence which he understood so 
well how to convey in the casual talk of a 
public gathering, the whisper intended to 
caress one ear in a babbling crowd. 

Later, when the count had claimed Mrs. 
Bayard’s attention for a moment, he added, 

“ Ah, how happy I should be if I thought 
you cared for roses !” 

This was the picture presented to the as- 
tonished gaze of Mrs. General Jefferson and 
Miss Bevis-Smith : the Prince Charming, 
winning in his grace of youth and beauty, 
placing himself at the side of Celia Bayard, 
under the benignant approval of Count 
Carmine Guigione. 

The latter, returning to his lofty chamber 
that night, indulged in no mysterious in- 
cantations of witchcraft, and invoked no 
aid of the powers of darkness. He did 
rub his hands together softly, however, and 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

nod his head at the portraits of the pale 
nun and the cavalier without a nose, as 
if taking them both into his confidence. 
What if he aspired to higher things than 
making himself amiable to foreigners ? 
What if he cherished such an air-castle as 
establishing his young kinsman, the Prince 
del Giglio, well in life, and the disconso- 
late Contessina Olga Vallambroni ? 


CHAPTER V. 

A MEDITERRANEAN WATERING-PLACE. 

Mrs. Bayard, guided by the advice of 
her new friend, Count Guigione, did not 
turn her steps northward toward Switzer- 
land, the Bavarian Alps, or even Venice, 
when summer became oppressive on the 
bank of the Arno. Instead, she sought 
Livorno, and, still directed by the count, 
established herself, for the months of July 
and August, at the Ardenza, three miles 
distant along the shore. Here the portal 
of a villa opened as if by enchantment to 
receive her, and she found herself the occu- 
pant of a charming abode almost without 
the trouble of selection. Had not the count 
communicated with the proprietor — his 
friend — and made all the requisite arrange- 
ments ? 

The villa formed one extremity of a cres- 
cent of buildings which faced the sea. A 
porch, sujoported on columns, led to a wide 
and lofty hall paved with marble, and open- 
ing on a garden in the rear. Statues adorn- 
ed this vestibule, and on either side were 
spacious rooms, the walls lined with old 
pictures, in heavily gilded frames, from ceil- 
ing to wainscot. A stairway wound up to 
the first floor, which consisted of a suite of 
apartments each more attractive than the 
last, and all in harmony with the gayety 
and life of external surroundings. 

A drawing-room hung with yellow dam- 
ask, the floor of polished w T ood, and the 
furniture gilt and white, opened on the 
balcony formed by the roof of the portico, 
and which afforded a superb view of the 
sparkling Mediterranean, the islands, the 
light-house — famous in Pisan and Genoese 
warfare — and the line of white boulevard, 
fringed with little parks and hedges of 
oleander in bloom, wending toward the 
city. The adjoining boudoir of soft gray, 
like the sea at twilight, led to chambers 
rose-pink, pale green, or brown, where each 


95 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

preserved its respective hue in every detail 
of appointment, from the cornice and fres- 
coes to the subject or tint of the pictures 
adorning the walls. The hues of spring, 
summer, and autumn were here grouped 
together, but winter was banished. 

In the rear was a detached room, entered 
between curtains of blue silk. The ceiling 
represented the vault of heaven sown with 
stars ; the walls reflected the same azure hue ; 
the windows were shrouded in draperies of 
silk and lace, while a chandelier of Vene- 
tian glass, like pale frozen flowers, was sus- 
pended in the centre. The screen placed 
before the chimney-piece might have been 
wrought by a fair mistress of the place in 
branches of delicate blossoms on a blue 
ground, and the exquisite water-color sketch- 
es on the wall — glimpses of sea — have been 
delineated by the same hand. 

“ The ladies’ room,” Count Guigione had 
announced, with a smile, on first conduct- 
ing Mrs. Bayard here. 

When they were installed, with little 
Theresa still as maid, but with the addition 
of man-cook, femme de chambre, butler, foot- 
man, and coachman — indispenable to such 
an establishment — Celia had thrown her 
arms about her mother’s neck and burst 
into tears. 

“It seems so unreal,” the girl had ex- 
claimed, laughing and sobbing. “ We have 
too much, mamma ! One can be happy 
enough to fear something.” 

These words awakened no echo of appre- 
hension in Mrs. Bayard’s heart, however. 
She soothed . Celia with a calm manner. 
She moved about the villa with an assured 
step, and gave her orders, coldly and impe- 
riously, to her obsequious servants. The 
mother of Celia must not appear dismayed 
or ill at ease amidst the luxury of her pres- 
ent surroundings. She criticised the ar- 
rangement of the drawing-room furniture, 
she even expressed dissatisfaction with the 
appointments of the dining-room. 

Count Guigione was well pleased, how- 
ever. The villa, belonging to the old Prin- 
cess del Giglio, had remained empty for 
several seasons past, and was one of those 
costly toys impossible to enjoy without a 
full purse, and difficult to dispose of to 
wary purchasers. 

With an efficient friend like the count to 
introduce them to the routine of the day, 
Mrs. Bayard and Celia soon found them- 
selves in the midst of gayety and pleasura- 
ble excitement. Besides, had not Celia re- 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

ceived one of those murmured confidences 
in her ear, before quitting Florence, from 
Prince Charming, already an established 
habitue of Mrs. Bayard’s salon ? 

“ I shall follow you to Livorno soon, if it 
will not be displeasing to you.” 

Celia’s smile had responded for her that 
it would not be at all displeasing ; and now 
she counted the days until he should ap- 
pear, thus completing the charm of a Med- 
iterranean watering-place. 

The novelty of her surroundings amused 
and interested the young girl. Beyond 
her cool halls of marble, her chambers of 
blue and pink and amber — the cage which 
wealth gives the bird to enhance its plu- 
mage — her thoughts followed the career of 
each stranger she beheld, and strove to com- 
prehend his destiny. Now it was a funer- 
al cortege moving along the road in the 
evening, with flaring torches casting fan- 
tastic shadows on the cowls of those bear- 
ing the dead from the city to the height 
of Montenero for burial. Now it was the 
merchant whose morning round of business 
brought his little cart to the door, drawn 
by a sagacious donkey, with its nose in a 
bag, as if no time must be lost en route. 
Then it was a mendicant — savage, wild, 
true son of such a coast, with tangled beard, 
picturesque rags, and supporting his steps 
with a statf — or a vendor of iced watermel- 
on, grateful in the fervid heat, w T hose har- 
vest of crimson and juicy fruit was illu- 
minated at night by a string of colored 
lanterns, suspended above the feast like a 
necklace of jewels. Again, a parlor-organ 
on wheels brayed its melodies under the 
hand of the dusky Sicilian, and attracted 
about it the children of such a resort. Here 
a little girl with the bronze tint of an Egyp- 
tian, her raiment curiously like a tulip in 
shading, and her feet in sandals ; there a 
tiny Jewish maiden, amber beads about her 
throat, her flying hair caught by a crimson 
ribbon, and her black eyes sparkling as she 
danced to the music — both in close proxim- 
ity to a serious German boy with straight 
blonde hair, and an English baby like a 
snow-drop. 

These elements were presented to Celia 
from her window or the wide balcony. 
She w T as not suffered to remain an idle and 
invisible spectator by the count. Soon vis- 
itors flocked to the villa, and invitations to 
receptions were exchanged. 

In the morning the ladies crossed the 
wlpte road to the little pier opposite, with 


96 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

its round tent at the farther extremity, 
which formed the drawing-room of the 
community. Here was the tiny caff, where 
oysters, lobsters, and dismal confectionery 
were vended ; here the rotunda, with the 
railed space on top, curiously like the deck 
of a ship, into which all the world might 
withdraw in a season of wind and tempest, 
when the tent must be furled ; and here the 
little bathing-houses, each roofed with mat- 
ting, extending out into the sea like a col- 
lection of limpets or mussels clinging to a 
rock. The limpid, green waters rippling 
about these shores must have been once 
the refuge of sirens and mermaids. In the 
early morning they still lapse gently in cool 
depths beneath the shadow of the barraccas, 
and refresh life by submersion in a crystal 
wave, languid, soft, and indolent — in har- 
mony with the climate and spot. 

Celia Bayard learned to swim with the 
aid of the bath-man in his boat, and Count 
Guigione leaned over the railing above, 
gently commending her progress. The 
count contented himself with witnessing 
the feats of others in the bath : personally 
he had a holy horror of cold water. 

The noonday was passed sheltered within 
the thick walls of the villa, Mrs. Bayard 
nodding drowsily in an arm-chair, and Celia 
nestled down on a sofa. The rooms were 
too dark — shaded by their curtains and 
awnings — for any occupations. 

With the sunset animation revived. Then 
the perfect beauty of the summer night is 
revealed to the most obtuse perception — a 
monotonous loveliness, if the term may be 
used, which wearies the stranger with a 
sense of vague irritation, possibly because 
spent with the heat of the day. Then the 
Mediterranean acquires its summer color- 
ing; the setting sun, which has flooded the 
sky with a crimson glory, is reflected on a 
sheet of liquid silver, where each wavelet 
becomes rose, golden, and pale blue; the 
sea ceases to resemble mere water: it is a 
vaporous, translucent medium, transmitting 
light. 

At this liohr Mrs. Bayard and Celia 
emerged, entered their carriage, usually 
with Count Guigione seated opposite, and 
drove along the shore. From the Sea Gate 
of Leghorn the route presented an aspect 
of brilliant animation. Concert -gardens, 
caffs, rival piers with their tents, and baths 
were already beginning to twinkle with 
lights ; pedestrians trooped out of the town 
to enjoy the freshness of evening, and car- 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

riages passed, each freighted with fair oc- 
cupants, from the four-in-hand drag to the 
American trotting-wagon. All tended in 
the opposite direction at this hour — toward 
the sea-wall of the Ardenza, which fur- 
nished the rendezvous of the evening, where 
carriages, paused, and the ladies descended 
to walk — this one, with pretty feet, holding 
up her draperies carefully, while another, 
not similarly blessed by nature, trailed reck- 
lessly her rich robe on the gravel. Out on 
the horizon the islands glo-wed purple in 
the evening light, and the ships passed, the 
great Oriental steamers bound for the East. 
The Lazaretto acquired a mellow and pict- 
uresque aspect, with its red roofs and tow- 
ers ; the oleanders bordered the road with 
fragrant and rosy bloom, where the shrub- 
bery drooped, powdered with gray dust. 
In this scene vivid colors were never star- 
tling. The bevy of ladies varied Paris mil- 
linery "with white lace draperies over their 
heads; pink moire - antique and lavender 
frillings often swept the humid stones of 
the sea-wall. Later this cloud of butterflies 
flew back toward the city, carrying Mrs. 
Bayard and Celia in their train, to spend 
the evening in the gardens, sipping ices 
and listening to music, or at the open-air 
theatre. 

One morning Mrs. Bayard made an un- 
pleasant discovery. When she visited the 
tent she found it already tenanted by a 
party of new arrivals. A pension , recently 
opened, had gathered this fresh element. 
Miss Bevis-Smith, with her poodle under 
her arm, was the centre of a group, while 
Mrs. General Jefferson had established her- 
self beside Count Guigione. Thus was add- 
ed the vigor of the English language to the 
many tongues already circulating in that 
confined space, and possibly the gossip of a 
tent — which seems the very focus of scan- 
dal-lost nothing from the addition of these 
ladies to its number. 

Mrs. Bayard flashed no defiance at Mrs. 
General Jefferson ; she merely smiled, and 
languidly inclined her head. Mrs. Jefferson 
flushed uneasily, and turned her restless 
black eye on the delinquent but uncon- 
scious Count Guigione. Why had not this 
gentleman mentioned to her the fact of Mrs. 
Bayard’s occupying a villa at the Ardenza 
when he had paid his farewell visit? 

Mrs. Bayard, gathering up her crisp white 
draperies, sat a little apart, reading the notes 
brought by her footman, and undoubtedly 
enjoying her triumph. Mrs. General Jeffer- 


97 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

son had no footman, evidently. Celia greet- 
ed Miss Bevis-Smith, and was welcomed by 
a joyous bark from the intelligent Bijou, 
who began to caper about her on four little 
white legs, closely shaven. 

“ Most extraordinary !” murmured Miss 
Bevis-Smith. “Bijou so seldom notices 
people !” 

Then the embarrassment of Mrs. Jeffer- 
son became perceptible to the young girl, 
and she held out her hand. Celia was ren- 
dered uncomfortable by the mortification 
of others. 

Count Guigione was the most charming 
element of life in this tent spread above 
the Mediterranean waves. He hung ten- 
derly over the chair of the Italian invalid ; 
he paused to admire the embroideries of 
the German ladies, who sorted their wool 
and plied their needles busily all day long ; 
he deftly extracted the fishing-hook from 
the back hair of Miss Bevis-Smith, flung 
about her head by a reckless angler of five, 
in knee-breeches, emulous of fishing be- 
tween the railings of the pier ; he arranged 
all boating-parties and expeditions to the 
Church of Montenero, with its miracle Ma- 
donna. The count was a lady’s man, but 
he was also to be seen occasionally refresh- 
ing himself with masculine society in the 
person of some other old gentleman, as 
dapper as himself, when the two would dis- 
cuss public events of mutual interest in the 
most animated manner, waving their arms, 
pausing to confront each other — all with 
an aspect of deadly hostility, while the best 
friends in the world. 

His sole rival was the German doctor, 
who, with twinkling blue eyes and a rubi- 
cund countenance, gained, in perfect good- 
humor and readiness to serve others, what 
he lacked of the Italian’s natural grace and 
tact. 

One night the shore and sea presented 
an unusual aspect. The promenade was 
deserted, the sky obscured by light clouds 
pierced by the moon, and the heaving wa- 
ters black, of a polished lustre, save when 
frosted by the wan light on the crest of a 
wave. The tent was furled, and a group 
was gathered at the farther extremity of 
the pier to observe the moon’s eclipse. 

Celia Bayard, a little weary and abstract- 
ed, rested her arm on the green railing; 
the voices of Count Guigione and the Ger- 
man doctor mingled with those of her 
mother and Miss Bevis-Smith, but she did 
not heed their words. The girl was de- 
7 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

pressed and apprehensive ; her eye wander- 
ed over the dark sea which whispered and 
rustled about the pier, the softened echoes 
of a perpetual sadness, the mystery of un- 
rest, like the human soul. The Mediter- 
ranean, the earth, and the very heavens had 
an aspect of waiting in hushed suspense, 
which is more terrible than the violence of 
storms. The thoughts of Celia took no 
definite form in the lassitude of her mood. 
Had they done so, undoubtedly disappoint- 
ment at the tardy appearance of her hero 
with the eloquent eyes would have furnish- 
ed the true source of discontent. 

Overhead the moon revealed herself 
through the veiling clouds from time to 
time, the shadow of the eclipse sharply di- 
viding her orb. This moon, round, full, 
lurid, and yet of a sullen, menacing aspect, 
might be interpreted as meaning confusion, 
dread, and wars to the human race. Occa- 
sionally a meteor shot out over the sea, 
and vanished like a globe of emerald fire, 
leaving the darkness and silence the more 
intense for such transient brilliancy. Mid- 
night marked the total eclipse. 

Celia became aware that some one bent 
over her chair, and raised her eyes to en- 
counter those of the Prince del Giglio. 
When the first greetings had been ex- 
changed he seated himself beside her. 

The circumstance escaped neither the 
argus-eyed Mrs. Jefferson nor Miss Bevis- 
Smith. Love, youthful confidence, a soft 
confusion, which beholds nothing beyond 
the circle of its own happiness, was the 
clinging and tenacious plant at which both 
of these ladies struck their sharpest blows 
of sarcasm and disapproval. Love ? There 
was no such thing left in the world. Self- 
deception, falsehood, flattered vanity, were 
the shadowy emblems remaining of the de- 
posed sovereign. If Miss Bevis-Smith wept 
over sentimental novels in the seclusion of 
her own little room at the hotel-pension , 
she gave no outward sign. Mrs. Jefferson, 
from the superior standing of married lady 
and widow, did, it is true, occasionally 
quote poetry, and give it to be understood 
that she had known the grand passion-; 
but she invariably shook her head over 
the impossibility of happy marriages, and 
found in money or self-interest the motive 
for such alliances. 

“Ah, I have longed to be here before !” 
sighed the prince, in French. 

“We have been very gay,” replied Celia, 
with a little pout. 


98 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

“ My mother has been ill,” said the young 
man. 

“The princess ill? .Oh, how sorry I 
am !” said Celia, with soft concern. 

The prince caressed his beard with one 
supple white hand, and gazed down into 
the dark waters a moment. 

“You have not welcomed me, mademoi- 
selle. Is my presence displeasing to you ? 
Shall I go away again ? or are you glad to 
see me ?” 

The prince asked these questions petu- 
lantly, archly, and reproachfully, still gaz- 
ing at the sea. 

“ I am very glad you have come,” replied 
Celia, with smiling lip and brightening 
eyes. 

Suddenly she uttered a cry. A great 
wave had glided in toward the shore with- 
out warning, and, towering above the rail- 
ing of the little pier, struck the prince and 
Celia with the first shock of its dissolving 
spray. At the same time the wind, of 
which this stealthy wave was the messen- 
ger, sprung into full violence, like a wild 
creature hurling itself on its prey. 

“It is the libeccio — the African wind!” 
cried the prince, grasping Celia by the arm 
as the hat was wrenched from his own 
head and carried away. 

Confusion had succeeded the tranquil 
stillness of the scene. Count Guigione and 
the German doctor had protected the re- 
treat of the bevy of ladies, also drenched, 
while the batli-men ran with the agility of 
sailors out on the railings and spars, secur- 
ing their boats and awnings. The prince 
and Celia struggled after, laughter succeed- 
ing their first alarm. In the shadow of the 
buildings he paused and drew Celia closer 
to his side, with some passionate exclama- 
tion in his own tongue. 

“You are not hurt?” he inquired, stoop- 
ing to search the fair girlish face in the 
darkness. 

“ Oh no.” 

“Nothing shall harm you while I am 
here to protect you,” said this young 
knight, in his vibrating musical tones. 

For a moment they stood there infolded, 
in the darkness and stormy night. Celia 
closed her eyes ; she felt his lips touch her 
hair, her forehead. The great wave could 
not overwhelm her, the mighty wind could 
not blight her, because of this strong, sweet 
human protection, which came to her in 
such gracious and winning guise. 

For six ensuing days the libeccio held 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

full sway, usurping the reign of summer — a 
wind cool and refreshing in its wild dis- 
turbance of tranquil heat, but which left 
humanity exhausted with rasped nerves 
afterward. The sky was blue during this 
tempest, and only at sunset, when the wind 
lulled, a bank of cloud on the horizon, 
sharply defined as a cliff, denoted that at 
midnight its voice w'ould be heard again. 
The sea moaned, and swept the deserted 
piers; the plants of the little parks, protect- 
ed by matting, bent and quivered in the 
blast. 

During this period of unfavorable weath- 
er Mrs. Bayard’s villa twinkled with lights 
and resounded with music. The idlers of 
the tent were gathered into the yellow sa- 
lon; Mrs. Jefferson — subdued and discreet 
in manner — and Miss Bevis-Smith sipped 
tea there, served by the German doctor. 
Count Guigione hovered about the guests 
at receptions, supper- parties, and dinners, 
like a benignant sjDrite. Mrs. Bayard was 
becoming daily more intoxicated with her 
new position, and delighted with her pres- 
ent mode of life. 

As for the prince, he lingered about the 
villa with that placid and indolent good- 
humor so incomprehensible to the North- 
ern man. He chatted with Mrs. Bayard, 
he played duets with Celia, or strummed 
alone on the piano; he chaffed little The- 
resa, who responded pertly with the famil- 
iarity of the Italian servant in addressing 
a superior ; he occupied for hours a luxuri- 
ous fauteuil, his head slightly thrown back, 
swinging a fan listlessly in one hand, and 
listening to the theories of Count Guigione 
and the German doctor without ennui and 
without interest. He was not precisely a 
suitor on good behavior, desirous of pleas- 
ing, because no effort was involved in his 
role^ and he had no misgivings as to the 
result. 

As if by mutual consent, both these young 
people had withdrawn to a distance of 
more conventional reserve since the night 
of the prince’s arrival. Occasionally, in 
the long hours spent in the shaded rooms, 
with their polished floors, crystal, gilt, and 
lace, the eyes of the young man darkened 
with some swift emotion, and interrogated 
the face of Celia. 

“ Have you forgotten the night of the 
wind and the storm, when my arm em- 
braced you in the shadow?” the eyes would 
question, while the full red lips remained 
silent. 


99 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE ; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


Then Celia’s lashes would veil her own 
glance, and the color deepen in her cheek. 
Her heart full of humility, she would ques- 
tion her own right to the love so evidently 
bestowed upon her. 

Count Guigione made no comments, and 
perceived nothing. He even parried the 
evident triumph of Mrs. Bayard, in the at- 
tentions paid Celia by the prince, by intro- 
ducing to her circle all the young men of 
the society about them. The prince did 
not yield his place by Celia’s side to any 
of them, however, and his serenity was not 
apparently disturbed by their homage. 

The libeccio ceased to prevail at length; 
the little tent once more was outspread, like 
the wings of a bird drenched by a shower, 
and the ladies were at liberty to produce 
their wools and work-baskets, while troops 
of children leaped into the sparkling waves. 
Then everybody began to gossip about ev- 
erybody else afresh, from the defective dis- 
cipline exercised by this mother over her 
little brood, to the impossible French ac- 
cent of the German doctor — behind his 
back — and the shocking misbehavior of a 
Neapolitan duchess— once a prima donna — 
who, surrounded by a throng of admirers, 
wore soiled ball-dresses of a morning, and de- 
fied the opinions of her sisters of all nations. 
Mrs. General Jefferson, rendered prudent in 
criticism of Mrs. Bayard by experience, and 
Miss Bevis-Smith were never weary of dis- 
cussing the Neapolitan duchess and de- 
ploring her shortcomings. 

The young men, attired in artistic yacht- 
ing costumes, not suggestive of active sea 
service, smoked cigarettes, and performed 
gymnastic feats, with the aid of chairs, for 
the amusement of the duchess. The mer- 
chant in coral and tortoise-shell jewellery 
jingled the box of his raffle. The poet 
who had composed his annual verses of 
welcome to the guests of the season, circu- 
lated with his little printed effusions. The 
caricaturist sat in the corner, demurely 
drinking coffee at a table. Later he would 
not fail to depict the young men in a yacht 
drawn on wheels along the promenade, por- 
tray the Neapolitan duchess with auda- 
cious drollery, and include Mrs. Jefferson, 
Miss Bevis-Smith, or Celia Bayard in his 
weekly budget of watering-place satires. 

Said Mrs. Jefferson, looping a thread of 
blue worsted over her ivory crochet-needle : 

“What a rattle-pate Count Guigione is !” 

“ He has just introduced Mrs. Bayard to 
that duchess,” said Miss Bevis-Smith, who 


was making lace on a square of green 
cloth. 

“ The Prince del Giglio has very charm- 
ing manners,” pursued Mrs. Jefferson, with 
her ivory needle hovering over the shawl 
she was making. 

“Y-e-s; a little artificial, don’t you 
think ?” assented Miss Bevis-Smith, secur- 
ing a wheel in her tiny web with a needle. 

“Artificial!” ejaculated Mrs. Jefferson, 
disentangling a knot. “ I would not trust 
him an inch.” 

“ It will be a match, I foresee,” added 
Miss Bevis-Smith, rescuing her work-box 
from Bijou’s inquisitive nose. 

“ Yes, if her dot is sufficiently large,” said 
Mrs. Jefferson, breaking the worsted at the 
obstinate knot with a little impatience. 
He will marry any girl rich enough to sup- 
port him, you know.” 

Miss Bevis-Smith glanced across the 
tent, in pensive meditation, to the place 
where the prince was reading aloud to 
Celia, with that aspect of belonging exclu- 
sively to her party so gratifying to Mrs. 
Bayard. 

“ They will be a handsome couple,” she 
murmured. 

“I only hope he may not withdraw if 
the settlements are not satisfactory. The 
girl will be very much talked about then,” 
said Mrs. Jefferson, sharply. 

It was thus that the Mediterranean wa- 
tering-place did not lack the element of 
the American girl in Celia Bayard. The 
Neapolitan duchess regarded her with vis- 
ible curiosity. The caricaturist in the cor- 
ner studied her. The tongues of the in- 
mates of the pension were seldom silent re- 
specting her. 

This young creature, type of a young 
country, if you will, spoiled by maternal 
petting, and therefore regarding all the 
world as her friends, frank and generous 
in her own impulses, as yet untroubled by 
chilling experience, was disapproved of 
by customs which have hitherto excluded 
young ladies from society — a mark of jeal- 
ousy in other women less beautiful and 
fresh than herself, and of envy for the 
purse of Fortunatus held so carelessly in 
her rosy fingers. Pert coquetries, childish 
caprices, bold assurance of manner, were 
each anticipated in her conduct in advance, 
founded on the estimation older nations 
chose to hold concerning her. 

A Russian once informed the writer that 
in his own country a belief prevails, on 


100 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

the authority of a traveller much respected 
who had written a book on America, that 
the daughters of families of all social grades, 
on attaining the age of majority, receive 
their portions from their fathers and quit 
the paternal roof, like their brothers, mak- 
ing an establishment for themselves, where 
each dwells en gargon , or marries at pleas- 
ure. The Prince del Giglio and Count 
Guigione only acted in accordance with a 
new order of things, introduced by stran- 
gers, in paying attentions to Celia before 
marriage. Had the prince met her at a 
ball, he would have danced with the mar- 
ried ladies, and Celia would have remained 
a wallflower for all his intervention. 

The sun beat down with fervid heat, ren- 
dering the sea like burnished glass; the 
tent spread like a convolvulus above a 
small world which hummed like a hive of 
bees, and the days passed monotonous and 
wearisome to many, but eventful to Celia 
and the prince. 

The annual ball in the tent, given by 
the young men, took place. At ten o’clock 
Mrs. Bayard appeared in black and laven- 
der, accompanied by her daughter in a 
cloud of white draperies, looped with 
snowy hyacinths. Mrs. Jefferson and Miss 
Bevis - Smith were already seated in their 
customary attitude, as inspectors of the 
company. The German doctor was at the 
moment dancing the polka with an arch 
and charming Italian, a black lace mantilla 
attached to her head and shoulder by red 
roses. The doctor danced with national 
ardor, his blonde hair flew about his head 
wfildly, and his eyes sparkled behind their 
spectacles, while his partner’s movements 
also consisted of a series of buoyant 
springs. 

The prince appeared cool and serene, 
always a little fatigued in aspect, but ador- 
ably handsome. All feminine glances soft- 
ened to languishing coquetry at his ap- 
proach, from the stout blonde matron in 
pink silk, fastened with great black velvet 
bows, whose white head-drapery imparted 
a certain statuesque beauty to her regular 
features, to the young married lady with 
powdered hair d la marquise and historical 
dress of maroon and blue moire. The 
prince smiled a response to all such allur- 
ing greetings, but gave his arm to Celia. 
His intentions were very serious, beyond 
doubt. 

The girl’s heart fluttered as she accepted 
the proffered arm, which seemed to have 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

become her support in life so naturally, and 
yet by a marvellous caprice of destiny. Mrs. 
Bayard, glowing with maternal pride, greet- 
ed Mrs. Jefferson and Miss Bevis-Smith al- 
most effusively. Count Guigione hovered 
about her for a time, then departed on 
some quest, first murmuring an excuse as 
he bowed low before Mrs. Bayard, who in- 
clined her head languidly and continued 
her conversation. The malicious black 
eyes of Mrs. Jefferson twinkled. Each at- 
tention paid Mrs. Bayard was a stab to her 
own vanity. Envy consumed her, and shook 
the prudence in which she had schooled 
herself to its foundations. 

“ The count is a charming person,” she 
observed, with a smile. 

Her two companions were silent, and 
looked after him. 

“Do you not think so, dear madame?” 
pursued Mrs. Jefferson, meaningly, leaning 
forward to observe the lady addressed 
across Miss Bevis-Smith. 

“Yes,” assented Mrs. Bayard, quite off 
her guard. 

“Ah ! I inferred as much,” said Mrs. Jef- 
ferson, archly. “ Rumor is right, then, in 
stating on all sides that we shall have a 
double wedding soon.” 

“ A double wedding !” repeated Mrs. Bay- 
ard, somewhat vacantly, and adjusting a 
diamond bracelet on her arm. 

She was wondering at that moment if it 
was not too extravagant to permit her Paris 
'dress-maker to send her a lace over-dress, 
as suggested persuasively by that siren. 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Jefferson, her tone sharp- 
ening imperceptibly, “ tliey say that the 
Count Guigione will marry, as well as the 
Prince del Giglio.” 

“Ah ! I should suppose the count rather 
old, besides being a confirmed bachelor.” 
Mrs. Bayard spoke at random : why not or- 
der the dress, so well adapted to her slen- 
der figure ? 

Mrs. J efterson giggled behind her fan. 

“ If you think so ! Of course you are the 
best judge of his age.” 

Mrs. Bayard turned angry, uncompre- 
hending eyes on Mrs. Jefferson. 

“Madame, I do not understand—” she 
began, then paused, struck full in the heart 
by this little arrow. 

Who had dared to suppose she would 
marry again— she, Celia’s mother, and the 
widow of that young hero, slain on the 
plains so long ago, whose memory was ten- 
derly enshrined in her heart ? 


101 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


Miss Bevis-Smith, -who formed the human 
boundary between two skirmishers, flushed 
uncomfortably, and gazed straight before 
her with a rigid expression. Mrs. Jefferson 
had her little vengeance, and enjoyed it. 
She looked no farther than arousing the 
suspicions of Mrs. Bayard — the golden carp 
already safe in the count’s net — respecting 
that schemer. Her shaft had sunk deep. 
She had effectually marred Mrs. Bayard’s 
enjoyment of the evening. Her lip curled 
when Count Guigione approached her, and 
she no longer beheld the illuminated tent, 
or its occupants, in a flood of bitter and 
sorrowful recollections. 

Dante has placed the envious, in his In- 
ferno, in a company of perpetual waiting, 
their eyelids sewn together with wires. 

In the mean while the prince and Celia 
were dancing the cotillon. The pier, cov- 
ered with waxed cloth, draped .with flags, 
flowers, and awnings, presented a pretty 
picture framed in the stillness of summer 
midnight. Chandeliers of wax-candles shed 
a soft light on all faces, while garlands of 
little paper lanterns wreathed the entire 
space on the margin of dark sea, forming a 
pendant fringe of crowns, balls, miniature 
yellow moons, and crimped shells. The 
marine character of the entertainment was 
enhanced by the use of the largest bath- 
houses for dressing-rooms. 

The gay scene, and the propinquity of 
the prince, lent wings to the spirit of Celia. 
The white robe, with its fragile hyacinths,' 
drifted like a soft cloud in that parterre of 
vividly-tinted human flowers, and the small 
head, with its crown of golden hair, seemed 
almost to rest on the shoulder of her part- 
ner. At length they paused beside the rail- 
ing and looked out over the sea. Celia had 
overcome that first shy dumbness which 
had held her mute when she beheld the 
prince. She talked with him frankly, even 
confidentially, now. Indeed, there was noth- 
ing in the conversation of the Prince del 
Giglio to inspire awe and reticence in a 
young girl. 

“ How pretty it is !” Celia exclaimed, 
glancing back into the tent; then, slowly 
turning toward the wide expanse of Medi- 
terranean once more, “ It is like a dream.” 

The prince w r as looking over her head 
in the opposite direction, but his abstrac- 
tion was so eminently discreet that Celia 
did not observe it. The lady with hair 
powdered d la marquise had made a little 
gesture with her fan. The prince replied 


in the negative with his eyes. The young 
matron shrugged her shoulders impercepti- 
bly and pouted; then she seated herself 
near, tore off a fragment of the paper wrap- 
ped about her bouquet, produced a tiny sil- 
ver pencil, and began to write, shielded by 
her fan. 

Celia uttered a low, musical laugh, still 
gazing out over the sea. 

“Your thoughts amuse you?” queried 
the prince, with a swift glance of suspicion 
at the fair, unconscious face beside him. 

“I once had a dream,” said Celia, still 
laughing ; “ I was a very young girl, and in 
an old house — such as you never entered. 
I dreamed that I wore a robe of gold, like 
the fairy tale, and I think I must now be 
wearing it. The dream meant happiness.” 

The prince did not understand or follow 
her thoughts, but the circumstance did not 
disturb him. She was pretty, graceful, and 
young, and — oh, subtlest flattery to the 
Latin man ! — she evidently adored himself. 

The lady with powdered hair rose, sipped 
the glass of wine for which she had de- 
spatched her partner, and slowly moved 
past the prince. Her hand touched that 
of the young man, the tiny roll of paper 
passed from her fingers to his, and was 
thrust beneath his glove in a twinkling. 
Then he bent over Celia and whispered : 

“ Give me one of the flowers you have 
worn to-night. You are so beautiful !” 

“It is ,you who are beautiful,” replied 
Celia, quite simply. 


CHAPTER YI. 

THE EVENING OF THE KINGS. 

In the month of January following, the 
old Giglio palace in the city of Florence 
presented a most unusual aspect at the hour 
of nine o’clock in the evening : the whole 
first-floor w r as brilliantly illuminated. The 
weather was unfavorable, and the night 
dark. A mingled sleet and snow fell in the 
narrow street, and rested on the projecting 
stone ledges of the windows in a white and 
fantastic drapery of external decoration. 
Occasionally the shrill pipings of the glass 
trumpets blown at the time of Epiphany 
resounded on the thoroughfares. It was 
the fete of the Kings in carnival calen- 
dar ; the Epiphany in Christian observance. 
Catholic Italy blended both ceremonials in 
one. 


102 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

This Evening of the Kings was to be cel- 
ebrated at the Giglio palace with the ut- 
most pomp of rejoicing. All the world was 
aware of the fact; rumor had for a long 
time previously busied itself with the de- 
tails; every one had striven to obtain an 
invitation. Mrs. Bayard, who had rented 
the 'piano noUle of the stately mansion this 
season, under the guidance of her useful 
friend Count Guigione, was about to give 
a fancy ball. 

The Giglio family had at length received 
tenants beneath their roof; theVallambroni 
opposite would willingly do the same could 
such lodgers be found capable of appreci- 
ating a residence in their shadowy and 
dreary abode. The young Prince del Giglio 
lent himself readily to the arrangement, and 
slightly shrugged his shoulders if it was 
mentioned. The old princess withdrew to 
her own suite of private rooms, and gave 
no sign of regret. 

Within the apartment was perceptible 
that waiting for expected guests, the last 
preparations, the readjustment of some de- 
tail under the supervision of the mistress ; 
while the confused murmur of voices, the 
clash of china and glass in the dining-room, 
revealed that the important item of supper 
— rich, abundant, and substantial — would 
not be lacking. At this hour the lofty ball- 
room presented a curious aspect. This ball- 
room, indispensable to the Florentine pal- 
ace, and so rarely used at present, had the 
usual floor of polished stone resembling 
agate, the gallery above for the musicians, 
the ornamented frieze * of gilt and white 
around the walls, and the frescoed ceiling 
representing Andrea del Giglio receiving 
the invading army of the French king, 
while Fame hovered in rosy clouds above 
the head, not of the conquering monarch 
but of the bold Florentine citizen. A large 
crystal chandelier held myriads of wax-can- 
dles ; and Mrs. Bayard, in mercy to the feet 
of the dancers, had spread a waxed cloth 
over the cruel cement pavement. This vast 
apartment, which might well have served 
as a theatre, was now illuminated and de- 
serted. 

A door opened on the right, and a figure 
slowly crossed the space of waxed cloth to 
a second door on the left. This appari- 
tion, in harmony with the place, was the 
Queen Catharine de 1 Medici, her black robe 
embroidered with old-gold, a lace ruff, also 
edged with the same thread, encircling her 
throat, and the historical coif on her head. 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

She had no sooner vanished than a second 
figure emerged from the same door on the 
right, and traversed the ball-room toward 
the door on the left. The second figure 
was more radiant and youthful than the 
first, and moved rapidly. She was no less 
a person than the fair Bianca Capello, risen 
from the Medici chapel to grace anew the 
Evening of the Kings. Her hair, rolled back 
from the face, was powdered with gold dust, 
and confined in a quaint head-gear of gold- 
en meshes behind, while a jewelled band 
across the forehead left pendant a large 
pearl above the eyebrows, as in the por- 
traits of the Uffizi gallery. A ruff of white 
satin framed the back of the neck, while 
the corsage, low in front, revealed a collar 
of pearls and rubies. Her dress was stiff 
with the fibre of silk and gold thread, the 
prevailing tint being amber, shading to 
brown, with raised flowers of velvet over 
the entire surface — one of those fabrics of 
ancient splendor to dream of before old 
portraits, and treasure in the cases of his- 
torical museums. 

The third form was a man in black, tall, 
angular, dry in aspect, who crossed the ball- 
room with the gait of one deprived of a 
dancing-master in his youth, but undisturb- 
ed by his present surroundings. He glanced 
at the fresco of Andrea del Giglio on the 
ceiling with interest, and he evinced a dis- 
position to thrust his hands into his pock- 
ets, which he restrained. 

Catharine de’ Medici was holding one 
satin boot to the fire which burnt in the 
grate of a little boudoir, like an oasis of 
warmth after the frozen grandeur of the 
ball-room, and Bianca Capello stood beside 
her. The man in black joined these la- 
dies, and surveyed them with an expres- 
sion of pride and pleasure impossible to 
describe. 

“ It beats all how well American women 
rig up,” he observed; and neither of his 
companions would receive a more genuine 
compliment during the evening. 

Bianca Capello w 7 as perplexed, however ; 
a little frown furrowed -her brow beneath 
the pendant pearl. 

“We might have invited th$ young 
sculptor, John Winter, mamma 1” she ex- 
claimed. “Everybody else has been re- 
membered, and I never thought of him.” 

“It is too late now,” said Catharine de’ 
Medici, otherwise Mrs. Bayard, in an indif- 
ferent tone. 

“We have never been to look at his 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

statue, either. What is it called ?— Iris, I 
believe. You promised to buy it, mamma.” 

“ If the work proved satisfactory,” said 
Mrs. Bayard, dryly. “Count Guigione has 
been to look at it. He did not say much, 
but one could not fail to detect his disap- 
pointment in the result. He suggested that 
Mr. Winter should make me a Hope, or a 
child after the bath, or some more pleasing 
subject.” 

“ Dear Mr. Jones, don’t you wish to buy 
a beautiful statue ?” said Celia, coaxingly, 
to the man in black. 

“ Can’t afford it, my beauty,” he replied, 
but made a note of John Winter’s address 
in his pocket-book. 

Catharine de’ Medici eyed him askance. 

“ Mr. Jones, it is not too late if you would 
like a fancy costume,” she suggested, doubt- 
fully. 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” he returned, cheer- 
fully. “ I never was good at masquerading, 
and I will remain to-night what the Lord 
made me — a free-born American citizen.” 

Mr. Carpenter Jones had arrived in Flor- 
ence the day before from Rome and Na- 
ples. The name of Mrs. Bayard had caught 
his attentive ear, and he had called on her, 
claiming old acquaintanceship. Mrs. Bay- 
ard was a little uncertain as to the suitable 
reception to give this eccentric man, who 
had, as a fellow-boarder of some years in 
New York, shown her much kindness, and, 
above all, had believed in the promise of 
Celia’s childhood. Her better impulses 
triumphed; she had received him affably, 
invited him to dine and attend the subse- 
quent ball. What would Count Guigione 
and the Prince del Giglio think of Mr. 
Carpenter Jones in his black broadcloth 
coat, which seemed to articulate with pain- 
ful distinctness every bone of his wiry 
body, his weather-beaten countenance, with 
a pair of keen and shrewd eyes, and large 
nose of an inquiring aspect, irregular mouth, 
and tuft of gray beard on the chin ? He 
would not assume a masquerading costume, 
and his nervous yellow hands, with the 
palms like parchment, did not assimilate 
readily with the pair of white gloves in 
which lfe had consented to imprison them. 
Mr. Carpenter Jones desired that no mis- 
take should be made in his individuality: 
he gloried in his birthright of a free na- 
tionality. 

“ Come with me, dear Mr. Jones, and I 
will present you to some people you may 
find agreeable,” said the hostess. 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 103 

“ Thank you ; I don’t know as I’m par- 
ticular about it at present,” said Mr. Car- 
penter Jones, craning his long neck above 
a stiff shirt collar with an ungainly move- 
ment habitual to him. “I’ll just look on 
and amuse myself, if you don’t object.” 

“Very well,” assented Mrs. Bayard, se- 
cretly relieved, and rustled away to receive 
her guests. 

The first arrival was Christopher Colum- 
bus, a handsome and dignified man of no- 
ble presence, with pointed beard and an 
abundance of curling hair. He advanced 
slowly, and paused beneath the chandelier 
with a profound salutation. He wore a 
black velvet doublet, the sleeves slashed, 
and the cloak lined with white satin, small- 
clothes, and great rosettes on his white 
satin shoes! Neither Mrs. Bayard nor 
Celia recognized him. The hostess put 
her hand on her heart and uttered a little 
gasp : a cold terror had seized her. Chris- 
topher Columbus, thus advancing, seemed 
to her the lost Captain Methley, risen to 
call her to account on the Evening of the 
Kings. 

“ Pardon me, dear ladies, if I intrude on 
you too early, but I could not resist being 
first to admire you,” said the familiar voice 
of the Count Guigione. 

Celia clapped her hands. 

“ Ah, it is you !” said Mrs. Bayard, slow- 
ly recovering herself. 

Why should she have thought of dead 
Captain Methley at such a moment ? Sure- 
ly the fancy was like the skeleton at the 
feast ! The count caressed Celia with his 
eyes and his praises. He had selected for 
her the character of Bianca Capello. 

“ But Bianca Capello was a wicked wom- 
an,” Celia had objected. 

The count had shrugged his shoulders. 

“ She was beautiful, and with Venetian 
hair,” he had replied. “ She came among 
us susceptible Florentines a stranger, and 
also bewitched us.” 

The count carried the day. Mrs. Bay- 
ard’s embroideries * in old-gold might be 
wafted from Paris at pleasure, but Celia’s 
robe was drawn from a wedding coffer of 
the Countess Vallambroni, and purchased 
for a round sum. 

Count Guigione was now transformed 
into Christopher Columbus as a delicate 
compliment to his hostess, and possibly 
with some comparison in his own mind be- 
tween himself and the famous Genoese dis- 
coverer. The old gentleman, so admirably 


104 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

disguised in his flowing wig, did not re- 
quire such aid to conceal traces of an in- 
terview fraught with emotion which had 
just transpired elsewhere, because his nat- 
ural serenity had reasserted itself on cross- 
ing Mrs. Bayard’s threshold. He had come 
from the dark Yallambroni palace opposite, 
where the feeble ray of an oil lamp shone 
on the countess, already attired for Ithe 
ball as Eleanorc of Toledo, and the Con- 
tessina Olga, converted, with the aid of a 
blonde wig, into a second Bianca Capello. 

The fatality of the choice troubled Chris- 
topher Columbus, who was compelled to 
acknowledge that the daughter of the host- 
ess had long since chosen the character. 

“Why did you persist in keeping your 
dress a secret, my dear child ?” Count Gui- 
gione had objected, a little peevishly. 

Then the Contessina Olga, with flaming 
eyes and crimson cheeks, had torn the 
blonde wig from her head and flung it 
across the room, wrenched her gloves into 
ribbons, disengaged the collaret from her 
throat, as if it stifled her. Should she go 
to the ball as the shadow of Celia Bayard ? 

“ Perhaps my turn may come yet !” she 
cried, panting, and still directing her flash- 
ing glance on Count Guigione. 

“ To be sure your turn will come, if you 
will practise a little patience,” he replied, 
soothingly, and stooping to pick up the 
discarded jewels. 

Olga smiled. 

“ If it does, you may rely on me to act,” 
she said. 

Then the count crossed the narrow street, 
marvelling at the obstinacy and folly of 
women. 

“Andrea must be first established in life,” 
reflected this domestic diplomatist, as he 
entered the ball-room. 

He no longer thought of the dismal Yal- 
lambroni mansion in the midst of th zfete 
of his own creation. No victorious general 
ever surveyed the field with more compla- 
cency than did Count Guigione the festiv- 
ities of the Giglio palace, where all obeyed 
the baton of his own authority, veiled un- 
der the guise of amiable suggestion. 

Soon the ball-room filled, gaining life 
and animation, after its aspect of chill de- 
sertion, in the fantastic groups which cir- 
cled about it. 

Moors in gorgeous tunics waltzed with 
Swiss peasant girls, or Columbia, in her 
star-strewn garments; Bedouin Arabs and 
Turks led in the quadrille the Spirit of 


j OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

Winter, veiled in tulle and crystal, or Marie 
Antoinette ; a Peruvian Inca, in garments 
composed of burnished feathers, brought a 
cup of coffee to Cleopatra seated on a sofa. 

Miss Bevis- Smith appeared as Queen 
Elizabeth, in stomacher and ruff, with her 
sandy hair rolled high over a cushion. 
Never had this lady looked so well. It 
often happens that the sober chrysalis of 
every-day life conceals a butterfly capable 
of expansion in a few hours of giddy pleas- 
ure. The German doctor was present in the 
linked mail and plumed helmet of Sieg- 
fried, sustaining his part with truly Teu- 
tonic skill in masquerade. Mrs. Jefferson 
— remembered by Celia at the eleventh 
hour — sustained the national character of 
Martha Washington — the kerchief folded 
across her breast, and the cap placed most 
becomingly on her head. Mrs. General 
Jefferson had stifled all other emotions in 
the desire to be present at the Evening of 
the Kings, and not appear to be left out. 
She wa3 herself profoundly ignorant that 
it was the last time she would ever appear 
in Florentine society. With the cap and 
kerchief of Martha Washington the lady 
had assumed a demure tranquillity, an un- 
obtrusive mildness of demeanor which well 
became her. 

The Prince del Giglio arrived late, as was 
his custom. All eyes turned on him simul- 
taneously as he made his way toward his 
hostess, in recognition of his claim to be- 
ing deemed the guest of the occasion. Per- 
haps the lights burnt brighter at his ap- 
proach, and that Giglio defying the French 
king amidst tlie rosy clouds of the ceiling 
may have smiled down on this descendant, 
now, as then, thinking more of the quality 
of his doublet than other matters. The 
prince wore the superb and graceful cos- 
tume of a Venetian in the days when doges 
ruled, and wedded the Adriatic from the 
deck, of the gilded bucentaur. He was 
attired in a suit of purple velvet, which 
had in the light the rich bloom of fruit ; 
bis cloak was lined with purple satin; a 
close ruff framed his neck; the white plume 
of his cap w T as fastened with a jewelled 
clasp ; and a chain formed of massive gold 
links crossed his breast. The calm beauty 
of the young man completed his resem- 
blance to one of those portraits by Titian 
or Paul Veronese, which glow with life and 
color after the lapse of centuries. 

Ah, how radiant a presence he seemed 
to the eyes of Celia Bayard ! When he ap- 


105 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

proached her the unity of their respective 
characters became apparent to all : Bianca 
Capello and a Venetian cavalier! 

“ Are they already engaged ?” every one 
inquired. 

“You are satisfied with me?” queried 
the prince, reading sweetest homage of ad- 
miration in the face of Celia. 

“Oh yes; but you did not tell me you 
were to be a Venetian, vl she responded. 

“ That was my secret. Did you suppose 
I would leave you, a stranger, alone ?” 

Then the prince put his arm about the 
fair Bianca, and they swept into the circle 
of the dancers, the shimmering gold of her 
brocades seeming to twine like a snake 
about his purple-velvet clad form. Did he 
bestow a thought on that other Bianca at 
the moment, who, dishevelled and despair- 
ing, was weeping with her head in her 
mother’s lap ? Probably not. When one 
is a Venetian cavalier, in the velvet, satin, 
and jewels worn by one’s ancestors in the 
fine old days which permitted men to be 
beautiful in rich raiment, one accepts the 
present, like a beaker of sparkling wine, as 
one’s right. 

Count Guigione drew a certain number 
of guests into a small salon w T ith the myste- 
rious impressiveness of a master of ceremo- 
nies. On the table was an immense pastry 
decorated with flowers. The count raised 
his knife and pronounced, solemnly, 

“ The lady or gentleman who finds the 
little doll in the share of cake received 
will be elected king or queen for the even- 
ing, and obeyed by all the rest.” 

Then he cut the pastry, and each received 
a portion, the count taking the last remain- 
ing piece. Lo ! the tiny china doll fell out 
between his fingers, amidst general laugh- 
ter. The count made a droll grimace. As 
far as clever manoeuvring had been possible, 
he had intended the prize for Celia. In- 
stead, he w T as king of the evening. The 
Prince del Giglio patted him on the shoul- 
der approvingly ; the Bedouin Arab brought 
a glass of champagne, and forced the new- 
ly-elected monarch to drink. Count Gui- 
gione cut a little caper, worthy of a boy for 
agility, and clapped his hands. 

“ Very good, my friends ; since Fate wills 
it, I accept the position,” he said. “ I wish, in 
the first place, to persuade you that I am a 
magician, as this is the time of witchcraft 
in all parts of the world. Do not you Eng- 
lish, even, believe that all which is promised 
on Twelfth-night comes true ?” 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

A murmur of assent responded; the 
laughter increased ; a crowd of heads ap- 
peared at the doors. 

The Count Guigione gravely ordered the 
huge platter of the pastry replaced by a 
little basket. Then he carefully uncover- 
ed a glass aquarium in the window, where 
a multitude of small fish dwelt amidst the 
rock-work of their tiny artificial world. 

“ Oh, my poor fish 1” excfhimed Celia. 

“ I will not harm them,” retorted the 
magician. 

Having succeeded in arousing the curi- 
osity of his audience at least, he requested 
each marriageable person present to inscribe 
their names on separate bits of paper. 

“ It is really too absurd !” said Miss Be- 
vis-Smith, with a nervous laugh, when the 
count insisted on receiving her signature. 

“I am too old for such child’s-play,” 
affirmed the calm and dignified Martha 
Washington, otherwise Mrs. General Jeffer- 
son. 

The count drew from his basket a quan- 
tity of gilded walnut - shells. He placed 
the owner’s name in the bottom of each 
tiny craft, lighted the wax match secured 
in the bow, and launched the fleet on the 
waters of the aquarium. The shell-boats, 
with their lights — those of the ladies rose- 
color, and those of the gentlemen blue — 
started on the voyage full of peril. . The 
company eagerly w T atclied their course. 
Miss Bevis-Smith uttered a little shriek : 
the boat of the German doctor sidled up 
to her own in mid-channel, and obstinate- 
ly remained by her side. Count Guigione 
glanced archly at the Queen Elizabeth, 
blushing beneath her rouge, and the Knight 
Siegfried, who smiled good - naturedly at 
the folly 7 '. 

All of the fleet were not destined to 
reach a safe haven at the other side, how- 
ever. The fish began to awaken, and dart 
about the crystal depths of the tank. An 
inquiring minnow rose to the surface, and 
bumped its nose against the gay craft of 
Count Guigione with such violence that it 
rocked and capsized. The magician raised 
his hands with a gesture of comic despair. 

“I am destined to pass through life 
alone !” he exclaimed. 

Celia followed her little boat with her 
eyes. It hovered irresolutely in the rear 
of the fleet, then detached itself, and be- 
came stranded on the dangerous reefs of 
rock -work. The predicament threatened 
to be disastrous — all the other walnut-shells 


10G 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


danced on — when the same adventurous 
minnow pushed a second shell straight to- 
ward Celia’s wreck, and a blue light joined 
her, amidst general acclamations. The blue 
light belonged to the prince, and the min- 
now could not have better pleased the ma- 
gician had it obeyed the magnet of his own 
will. 

“You have frightened the little fish quite 
enough, count,” said Celia, with real or af- 
fected petulance, turning away. 

But Count Guigione had not concluded 
his incantations for Twelfth-night ; and so 
real was his interest in the proceedings, 
that those about him found themselves per- 
forming absurd pranks with equal zeal. 
The pyramid of yellow and red apples was 
produced, and soon every one was paring 
the fruit and tossing the peel over the left 
shoulder, to read the initial of a beloved 
name. A great chart was suspended on 
the wall, covered with an alphabet in gi- 
gantic letters; and the count, blindfolding- 
his victim, led him before this magic scroll, 
gave him a long stick, and compelled him 
to select a letter. 

The Prince del Giglio, thus masked, found 
so readily the letter C, that one might well 
doubt the efficacy of the bandage over his 
bright eyes. 

Then the hot lead was dropped, assum- 
ing most fantastic forms. The magician 
insisted on guiding the reluctant hand of 
Miss Bevis-Smitli : the lead formed an un- 
mistakable medicine-phial. 

“Most extraordinary!” murmured the 
poor Queen Elizabeth, really abashed, and 
not venturing to glance at the Knight Sieg- 
fried beneath her pale eyelashes. 

She escaped behind the ample form of 
Martha Washington, and the two ladies 
chose a place of observation beneath the 
gallery of the ball-room. 

Count Guigione had one more trick in 
his repertoire. He demanded the presence 
of Miss Bayard’s own maid. Little Theresa 
appeared, pretty and smiling, from the dress- 
ing-room, where her nimble fingers were 
ready to mend all rents in draperies. The 
count cracked neatly the end of a fresh 
egg, and suffered the albumen to trickle 
into a glass of water. 

“ You must place this glass in your mis- 
tress’s chamber where she will look at it 
the first thing in the morning,” he said. 

Little Theresa bowed, and vanished again. 

“Dear friends, when my prophecies for 
the year are fulfilled, pray remember the 


king of th e, fete" concluded the count, dis- 
missing all with a majestic wave of the 
hand. 

His glance lingered on the Venetian cav- 
alier and Bianca Capello with a certain 
thoughtfulness. 

In the mean while Mr. Carpenter Jones 
had amused himself as he had proposed 
doing at the opening of the ball. He was 
not a dancing man, but he would have will- 
ingly hopped through a quadrille with Mrs. 
Bayard had that lady desired it. She had 
forgotten all about him, however, amidst 
her duties as hostess. Mr. Carpenter Jones 
considered Mrs. Bayard a fine woman, and 
rejoiced to see her enjoying even tardy 
wealth. He knew nothing of her affairs 
further than that she had inherited a fort- 
une on the death of a distant relative. He 
w T as prepared to interest himself zealously 
in her welfare with a liveliness of mind pe- 
culiar to himself. 

The free-born American citizen in black 
went about the apartment at his ease. He 
inspected the supper-table with approval ; 
he paused at a buffet, ate an ice and a bit 
of cake with unaffected enjoyment; when 
the conversation of a group attracted him, 
he paused near to listen; and, when he felt 
disposed, he addressed some portly old gen- 
tleman sedately intent on lobster salad and 
sherry. He had witnessed the count’s in- 
cantations in the smaller salon without 
numbering himself among those soliciting 
favors of Fate, while sharing the fun ; then 
he scrambled up a little crooked staircase 
leading to the balcony. This balcony w 7 as 
occupied by the musicians, who, absorbed 
in their task, did not particularly heed the 
intrusion of Mr. Carpenter Jones. The perch 
of observation delighted him; he slipped 
down behind a bass-viol, drew a vacant 
stool into this remote corner, and rested 
his arms on the railing. The ball-room 
was the height of two stories of the palace, 
and, as Mr. Carpenter Jones thus peered 
down on the assembled company of dan- 
cers, he became aware of a fresh interest in 
his vicinity. A small window on a level 
with the balcony opened quietly, and, shel- 
tered by a curtain half-drawn, two persons 
looked down on the gay scene. One was a 
woman dressed in black, with a black lace 
shawl gathered over her head, and the other 
was a priest. 

The woman, old, sallow, and faded, car- 
ried her head with a certain stateliness; 
the upper portion of her thin face, with the 


107 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

black eyes, remained impassive, while her 
mouth curved into a mobile change which 
might be a sneer or a smile. The priest, 
middle-aged, rosy, and fresh, of somewhat 
commonplace physiognomy, inspected the 
crowd with visible good-humor and amuse- 
ment. From time to time he made a gest- 
ure with a white, plump, clerical hand. 
The lady turned her head, as if to include 
the whole vast apartment in one compre- 
hensive glance, and her black eyes lingered 
long on the fresco of the ceiling ; then the 
curtain dropped, a panel slid noiselessly, 
and all vanished. 

Mr. Carpenter Jones — behind the bass- 
viol, which hummed in his ear like an in- 
furiated and gigantic bee — pondered deep- 
ly over this incident. 

“ I shouldn’t wonder if that was the old 
princess,” he soliloquized. “ I suppose she’s 
poor as a crow and proud as Lucifer.” 

Then his glance strayed again over the 
groups below. Suddenly he raised his 
head with an expression of surprise. Mrs. 
Jefferson and Miss Bevis- Smith had ap- 
proached, and paused beneath the balcony ; 
in the intervals of the music their voices 
and words reached his ear. It happened 
that in the crowd he had not before beheld 
Martha Washington or Queen Elizabeth, 
although he had stopped only a few paces 
behind them when witnessing the count’s 
games. His whole attention became con- 
centrated on Mrs. Jefferson, and for an 
hour he did not cease to study her gest- 
ures, listen to her voice, scan her features. 
At the expiration of this time the silent 
observer formed a resolution. 

“ Crickey 1” he exclaimed, smiting him- 
self on the right knee. “It’s the old girl 
herself, and no mistake ! I wonder if she’ll 
be glad to see me.” 

Mr. Carpenter Jones darted out from be- 
hind the bass-viol, descended the crooked 
stair, and gained the side of the uncon- 
scious Martha Washington. 

“Well, Mrs. Bunce, how are you? So 
you’ve returned to the Old World once 
more, eh ?” 

Mr. Carpenter Jones spoke in a loud, 
clear voice, and extended his hand to Mrs. 
Jefferson. Miss Bevis-Smith stared. Mrs. 
Jefferson grew white as ashes. 

“I do not understand — there is some 
mistake,” she stammered. 

“ Mistake ! Lord, I’ve been spying down 
on you from the balcony for the past hour,” 
said Mr. Carpenter Jones. “I never was 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

mistaken in a person in my life, Nancy. 
Do you still make pies? Goodness! my 
digestion has never been straight since I 
last ate ’em.” 

Was Mr. Carpenter Jones wholly obtuse, 
that he did not perceive the stupefaction 
and distress of the unfortunate woman be- 
fore him ? or was there a twinkle of mal- 
ice in those keen eyes of his before a for- 
mer acquaintance, who did not perceive his 
outstretched hand, and who informed him 
that he had made a mistake in greeting 
her? The self-love of Mr. Carpenter Jones 
may have been as sensitive as that of other 
men. 

Mrs. Jefferson, pale, distraught, desper- 
ate, muttered, 

“ I feel ill ; the heat is so great here.” 

Then she fled ignominiously, her sole 
object being to escape. In the dressing- 
room she snatched her fur -lined cloak 
from a chair, descended to the door, and, 
without waiting for her carriage to be sum- 
moned, ran like a mad creature along the 
deserted streets to her own home. 

In the disaster of encountering Mr. Car- 
penter Jones she beheld revenge on the 
part of Mrs. Bayard : the latter had in- 
vited her to the ball in order that she 
might be publicly disgraced by this odious 
man. 

Miss Bevis-Smith and Mr. Carpenter 
Jones were left gazing at each other in 
mutual astonishment. He was perceptibly 
affronted at the flight of Martha Washing- 
ton. 

“ It was the heat,” explained Queen Eliz- 
abeth. “You knew Mrs. Jefferson in her 
own country ?” 

“ No,” replied Mr. Carpenter Jones, dryly. 
“ I knew her in America, ma’am, if by Mrs. 
Jefferson you mean Nancy Bunce. She is 
an Englishwoman by birth.” 

“ Dear me ! and Nancy Bunce was her 
maiden name, perhaps,” hazarded Miss Be- 
vis-Smith, now much interested. 

Mr. Carpenter Jones uttered a short 
laugh. 

“Nancy Bunce is all the name I ever 
heard of her owning. What is she doing 
here ?» 

Miss Bevis-Smith should have been 
frightened by the abrupt manners of this 
strange man, but feminine timidity did 
not gain the mastery ; she scented a mys- 
tery. 

“Possibly you were acquainted with her 
husband, General Jefferson?” she said. 


108 A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


“ No. She is married, then ? Where is 
the general ?” 

Mr. Carpenter Jones asked this question 
briskly, glancing about him as if he ex- 
pected that hero to be in the throng. 

“ Oh, pray hush !” admonished Miss Be- 
vis-Smith, coughing behind her fan. “ He 
died many years ago ; he was an Amer- 
ican officer, and served in the Mexican 
war.” 

“ I guess not,” said Mr. Carpenter Jones, 
staring at Miss Bevis-Smith in turn. “ You 
must mean somebody else. Are you an 
American, ma’am ?” 

“ Oh dear no !” ejaculated Queen Eliza- 
beth, fanning herself violently. 

“ Humph ! I thought not,” resumed Mr. 
Carpenter Jones, with his most impenetra- 
ble expression. “ Well, then, you must 
know, ma’am, that in our country almost 
everybody finds something to do. For my 
part, six months in one of these God-for- 
saken old Italian cities would put me into 
a lunatic asylum. I could not live on 
art myself. Well, Nancy Bunce came to 
America a poor girl, and had to do what 
she could for a living. There’s no dis- 
grace in that, I hope. She was cook in 
the house where I boarded, out West, for 
awhile, and afterward she got a place as 
house-keeper and companion with an in- 
valid. What is her position here, though ?” 

“ She is a resident of Florence,” said Miss 
Bevis-Smith, with some hesitation. 

“ Ah ! Her employer must be dead : left 
her some money, likely,” said Mr. Carpenter 
Jones, in a jerky manner. “Why was she 
scared away ? We were always good friends 
— Nancy and I.” 

“I do not know,” replied Queen Eliza- 
beth. 

Then, as Mr. Carpenter Jones had no more 
intelligence to communicate, she seated her- 
self in a quiet corner, overwhelmed by the 
startling scene of which she had been a 
witness. Later, the Knight Siegfried found 
her here, and gallantly conducted her to 
supper, where they conversed in German. 

The opposite house was dark and silent, 
in marked contrast with the Giglio palace. 
In an open window a head was visible. 
This head, uncovered and with dishevelled 
hair, was that of the Contessina Olga. The 
girl, wrapped in a cloak, had locked herself 
in a chamber where she was supposed to be 
asleep, the better to observe a scene of rev- 
elry which fascinated her. The frozen rain 
fell on her luxuriant tresses, and she shiv- 


ered in her warm cloak. The most conflict- 
ing emotions raged in her childish soul : 
regret that she was not tasting the delirium 
of the dance, jealousy of Celia Bayard, bit- 
terness and disappointment in the defection 
of Andrea del Giglio, wrath at her own 
helplessness. The sounds of music and 
laughter reached her ear; every window 
opposite streamed with light. She was 
completely forgotten — not even missed — 
across the street. Olga hated the lights 
which lured her like a moth to the scorch- 
ing flame. Beyond the curtains she could 
recognize occasionally a familiar form; Count 
Guigione as Christopher Columbus turned 
on his heel as if executing a little pirouette. 
Once she beheld a female form emerge from 
the entrance-door and flit along the street 
unattended. She followed the figure with 
her eyes, instinctively recognizing a soul in 
trouble. 

Then her gaze reverted to the palace 
again, and she clinched her hand with an 
exclamation like a groan. Strange mock- 
ery of chance ! The prince and Celia paused 
in this nearest window after the dance. He 
bent over his partner with that graceful ac- 
tion habitual to him, and which the Count- 
ess Olga knew so well, and carried one of 
her gloved hands to his lips half playfully. 

The girl opposite threw back her cloak 
with a feverish gesture. In the misery of 
neglect and humiliation, so tragic to her pas- 
sionate Southern nature, the fearful thought 
of self-destruction — ever lurking in the brain 
of her people, if unhinged by grief— flashed 
through her confused thought. She would 
throw herself from the window — die inlher 
youth, forgotten, abandoned ; and perhaps 
her death-cry would pierce that ball-room 
above the sound of music, blanching all 
cheeks with horror ! At the moment when 
the prince carried Celia’s hand to his lips 
Olga sprung on the window-ledge and hung 
over the dark abyss of narrow street, where 
the cruel pavement awaited her below. The 
merest swerving of her body, the relaxing 
of a muscle smitten by fear, would have de- 
cided her fate. 

She drew back with a shudder, closed 
the window, as if to avoid temptation, and 
threw herself on her knees before a crucifix, 
yielding to floods of tears. The Contessina 
Olga was more sybarite than heroine by 
temperament. If every festival has its Nem- 
esis waiting in shadow, that of Celia Bay- 
ard must have been the neighbor over the 
way — a neglected girl, framed in a massive 


109 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


window, the frozen rain beating on her un- 
covered head. 

At two o’clock the door of the ball-room 
opened to admit a fantastic procession : a 
group in masks and dominos, blowing 
lustily on the long, slender glass horns — 
emblematic of the season of year — preceded 
by a gigantic Befana. 

This Befana — the old woman who brings 
good and evil, as reward of merit, to chil- 
dren at Epiphany — was in the present in- 
stance fully eight feet high, her robes and 
head-gear white as snow, and her paste- 
board countenance of a ghastly pallor. In 
her hand she held her little broom, as a rod 
of correction, while one of her attendants 
moved at her side, bearing a basket. Count 
Guigione, the Prince del Giglio, and many 
other gentlemen having vanished previous- 
ly, became associated in the minds of the 
company with this masquerade. The Be- 
fana mercilessly chastised every member 
of the male sex encountered with her little 
broom; then, naming each lady present, 
drew from the magic basket a pretty gift. 
No person save the Count Guigione could 
baye recalled all these names in bestowing 
little satin bags and boxes of bonbons. 

“Miss Bevis-Smith,” pronounced the Be- 
fana,' m a hollow and distant voice, and 
held out a tiny dog of white sugar, which 
might have been a portrait of Bijou. 

“Mrs. Jefferson,” continued the Befana , 
and produced a gilded fish on a chocolate 
rock. 

The lady did not respond. Queen Eliza- 
beth discreetly withdrew beyond the circle. 

“Madame General Jefferson,” repeated 
the Befana , with emphasis. 

The gift was returned to the basket. 
Mr. Carpenter Jones, leaning against the 
wall, formed his mouth into the requisite 
position to emit a whistle, but refrained 
from doing so in consideration of the gen- 
teel company in which he found himself. 

“Miss Celia Bayard,” concluded the Befa- 
na , and deposited in the hand of the young 
girl a cluster of pale roses such as she had 
received on Easter evening. 

Then the music resumed its sway; the 
cotillon was formed, lasting until six in the 
morning; and Mrs. Bayard enjoyed the tri- 
umph — considered indispensable to success 
on such occasions — of detaining her guests 
until half-past eight o’clock, and then dis- 
missing them with the chocolate and coffee 
of a first breakfast. 

When Celia, weary, happy, and confused, 


sought her chamber, she dismissed the 
sleepy Theresa. Her first movement was 
to separate her bouquet. She scattered the 
roses on the floor, and read a slip of paper 
concealed by their perfumed petals : 

“ Fair Bianca, — Thou hast come among 
us a stranger, and dazzled all eyes by thy 
matchless beauty. Remain, and endeavor 
to love always 

“ Thy devoted Andrea.” 

She kissed the paper dreamily, and slid 
it beneath her pillow, after the fashion of 
all true lovers. Then she remembered 
Count Guigione’s egg, and could not re- 
frain from peeping at it before she slept. 
She drew back the curtain, and held the 
glass to the light. The albumen had form- 
ed in the water a fragile and beautiful 
shape, transparent as crystal. 

“It is like the Jerusalem sepulchre of 
the Giglio chapel !” exclaimed Celia. 

She felt very cold ; her teeth chattered as 
she replaced the glass on the table, drew 
the curtain again, and sought her bed. 

The Evening of the Kings was over. 


CHAPTER VII. 

WINNING A TITLE. 

The following morning Mr. Carpenter 
Jones, to whom sleep was ever a secondary 
claim of nature, emerged from his hotel. 
It was too early to call on Mrs. Bayard. If 
he knew the residence of his former ac- 
quaintance, Nancy Bunce, he would seek 
her, if only to learn the cause of her dis- 
may the previous evening. 

“Where the mischief did she get her 
title of Mrs. General Jefferson?” mused the 
gentleman, pausing in the door of the hotel 
to gaze up and down the street. 

Clearly he must find her to fathom this 
mystery. Had Nancy Bunce married over 
here in Europe some dilapidated hero of 
the Mexican war within the past six 
years ? He decided to investigate the mat- 
ter. Then he drew from his pocket the 
memorandum -book in which he had in- 
scribed the address of John Winter, when 
Celia had begged him to purchase a statue. 
He began to ramble along in the direction 
indicated by the hotel porter, from lack of 
other occupation. 

Thus had this unconscious stranger rent 


110 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


the web of one human spider by a blunder- 
ing intrusion, while about to take up the 
slender clew of another which would lead 
to important results. 

Mr. Carpenter Jones, witli his soft felt- 
hat tipped over his eyes to exclude the 
sun — for the day was fine — walked in the 
direction of the studio, as indifferent to 
public opinion as an old traveller may well 
be. As he reached a long space of wall in 
the street he was traversing, he beheld a 
lady, in an ulster and high linen collar, 
leading a poodle by a red cord. The lady 
had paused in the act of reading an open 
letter. Mr. Carpenter J ones passed her with 
a glance of leisurely inspection, and entire- 
ly without recognition. How could he be 
expected to recall the Queen Elizabeth of 
the ball, with rouge, feathers, and stomach- 
er, in Miss Bevis-Smith, clad in ulster and 
high linen collar ? 

It was Miss Bevis-Smith, however, taking 
her daily walk around the town, and peep- 
ing at a note just received from Mrs. Jeffer- 
son, in which the lady stated that a tele- 
gram necessitated her immediate departure 
for London. 

“ Fancy ! already off for London !” ex- 
claimed Miss Bevis-Smith, folding the note, 
and stalking on. 

Bijou, as the only recipient of this con- 
fidence, wagged his tail, and trotted beside 
her. 

Mr. Carpenter Jones, ignorant of the iden- 
tity of the lady, as well as the contents of the 
note, pursued his way. He was one of those 
Americans always to be found in the front 
rank of public movements and enterprises. 
He had been known, personally, to evolve 
schemes which, proving visionary and im- 
practicable, had been first cast aside by the 
inventor. He had studied law ; he was in- 
terested in life insurance ; he had practised 
certain theories of medicine ; dentistry had 
received development at his hands; dur- 
ing the Civil War he was very busy indeed, 
although holding no prominent post under 
government. He had been wrecked in the 
Gulf Stream, and twice blown up in an ex- 
plosion on the Mississippi River. 

Later he had travelled extensively, cross- 
ing the ocean, for a time, with the pre- 
cision of a shuttle passing from shore to 
shore, and interweaving the business inter- 
ests of nations. Again he sought fresh 
fields for his restless activity in the remote 
West, in South America, and finally in 
China, Japan, and Egypt. Everywhere he 


gloried in making use of his own language, 
knowing no other. 

He had just returned from Cairo, by way 
of Brindisi, not a penny the richer in purse 
for his prolonged absence, however much 
he had gained in experience. 

When he reached the door of Abraham 
Blackwood’s studio, he entered somewhat 
unceremoniously, and glanced about him. 
A young man was working at the bust of 
a child, with his back turned to the door. 
Opposite was a statue in plaster, represent- 
ing a female form with drooping wings, 
seated, her hands folded ; but in her atti- 
tude, about her draperies knotted at the 
waist, w T as a lightness suggestive of arrest- 
ed flight. The Nereid of the Naples Mu- 
seum possesses the same charm of girlish 
grace. Mr. Carpenter Jones recognized 
that this must be the Iris. 

“ Mr. John Winter, I believe,” he said, ad- 
vancing toward the occupant of the studio. 

The young man bowed, and looked at 
the visitor. John Winter beheld that lean 
and wiry form in the black coat for the 
first time, but not for the last, in his life. 
The young sculptors face was clouded ; he 
had just undergone a bitter trial of morti- 
fication in the increased coldness of his 
first patroness. Mrs. Bayard’s promises had 
been so lightly and readily given, and were 
so slow of fulfilment. His first youthful 
enthusiasm of hope had carried him up 
to the clouds when Celia’s bust had been 
given a place in the Giglio palace. He 
had worked on the Iris from dawn till 
sunset, cheerful, absorbed, courageous; and 
when completed Mrs. Bayard had sent 
Count Guigione to inspect it, instead of 
coming herself. The blow was the more 
severe that it was unexpected. To send 
Count Guigione to criticise the work of a 
foreign artist — was it not like signing his 
verdict of defeat in advance, since the vis- 
itor would regard his intrusion on the le- 
gitimate field of native sculptors as an 
unwarrantable infringement? When the 
count had made those little suggestions 
concerning other subjects as more likely 
to suit Mrs. Bayard, John had cut short his 
words hotly : 

“ Mrs. Bayard need not take the Iris, of 
course. She will find plenty of the statu- 
ettes she prefers in the shop-windows.” 

The count had departed well satisfied 
with his visit. Nothing more would be 
said with reference to the Iris of John 
Winter, he was convinced. 


Ill 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

Albert Dennis liad come to the studio 
this morning brimming over with news 
concerning the ball. 

“ It would not have hurt them to invite 
us,” he had grumbled, regretfully. 

John Winter winced, but made no reply. 

This was the mood in which Mr. Car- 
penter Jones found the young man — reti- 
cent, gloomy, even satirical. The stranger 
was not chilled by his demeanor. He rub- 
bed his hands together after introducing 
himself, and nodded his head approvingly 
at the task before John Winter. 

“ That is right !” he pronounced. “ I 
like to see a young man at work. I sup- 
pose if Providence gave you a brain and 
a fine set of muscles, he expected you to 
make some use of them, eh ?” 

John smiled in spite of himself. 

“ One may well doubt it sometimes,” 
added Mr. Carpenter Jones. 

Then he wished to learn all particulars 
respecting the portrait of the child on 
which the young sculptor w T as engaged. 
Yes, he knew the old gentleman in the 
brown wig who had ordered the work, 
and he had met the bereaved mother be- 
fore her marriage. All this was simple 
and natural. Mr. Carpenter Jones, with- 
out idle boasting, had an extensive ac- 
quaintance. John Winter became inter- 
ested ; he summoned the old sculptor. 
Albert Dennis surveyed Mr. Carpenter 
Jones superciliously, while caressing an 
incipient mustache. Neither Abraham 
Blackwood nor John Winter ever learned 
to value a man by the shape or quality of 
his coat. 

u Proud to make your acquaintance, sir,” 
said the visitor, shaking hands with the old 
sculptor. 

Later he paused before the Iris in silent 
contemplation, as if he had just observed it. 

“I am no great judge of art, but this 
seems to me a mighty pretty thing,” he 
said. 

John Winter flushed deeply. The old 
sculptor stroked his beard. 

“There is good work in it,” he said, 
slowly. 

“I hope you intend sending it to the 
States for sale,” pursued Mr. Carpenter 
Jones, briskly. “ I was about to say that as 
I am not rich enough to afford to buy such 
a statue, I would offer to take it across and 
exhibit it for you, if I was not going back 
to Egypt.” 

A moment’s silence succeeded this dec- 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

laration. Albert Dennis coughed, and be- 
came purple with suppressed laughter, but 
the old sculptor’s eye beamed with its most 
benevolent expression as it rested on Mr. 
Carpenter Jones. 

“The work is not for sale,” said John 
Winter at length. 

lie had lifted his head, and the cloud 
cleared from his face. The master observed 
him attentively. 

The visit of Mr. Carpenter Jones proved 
agreeable not only to himself but to Abra- 
ham Blackwood, and in departing he prom- 
ised to “ look in” frequently during his so- 
journ in Florence. He had avoided allu- 
sion to Mrs. Bayard in the presence of 
John Winter with an instinctive delicacy, 
and feigned to have heard no mention 
previously made of the Iris. Mr. Carpenter 
Jones seldom remained on neutral ground 
— possibly he "would not have been such a 
wanderer on the face of the earth had he 
more frequently done so — and his interest 
was now enlisted for the cause of the young 
sculptor. He determined to arouse Mrs. 
Bayard’s interest, to induce her personally 
to inspect the Iris, in order that budding 
ambition should not be dashed down from 
its height of expectation. “The laborer 
is worthy of his hire.” “Why should not 
he have some of her money as well as those 
foreigners?” soliloquized this philanthro- 
pist, quitting the studio. 

Then he paused, reflected, and retraced 
his steps. 

“Do you happen to know where Mrs. 
General Jefferson lives?” he demanded, 
thrusting his head in the door. 

“ This young man visits the lady,” said 
the old sculptor, indicating Albert Dennis. 

The latter gave the address with his cus- 
tomary readiness. 

“ She has gone away on a journey,” he 
added. “ I saw her this morning drive in 
the gates of the depot, in a cab piled with 
luggage.” 

“ Humph ! She will return, I suppose ?” 
said Mr. Carpenter Jones. 

“ Of course,” replied Albert Dennis. 

John Winter continued to work at the 
bust all day. He was silent and preoccu- 
pied, but no longer gloomy. Occasionally 
he paused and looked at the Iris with a 
curling lip, then resumed his task with a 
profound sigh. The disapproval of Count 
Guigione had affronted without discourag- 
ing him, because he was convinced that the 
Athlete of the Vatican would have been 


112 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


found defective under the circumstances. 
A cloud-castle had vanished also with Mrs. 
Bayard’s withdrawal of patronage : for 
months he had pondered on the gift he 
would bestow on the old sculptor, and 
even the surprise he would give his com- 
rade Albert Dennis, when this little fortune 
was vouchsafed him. He had never been 
able to give anything in his life, beyond 
the flowers and shells lavished on the doc- 
tor’s baby so long ago. He had been tried, 
and found wanting. This was the reflec- 
tion gaining the mastery of his spirit. The 
Iris was not the ideal of his dream, the 
snow-woman of the brook. 

At four o’clock the old sculptor ap- 
proached him. 

“ Be so good as to move aside,” he said, 
quietly. 

John Winter accordingly stepped back, 
and waited. What was his surprise to be- 
hold Angelo and another workman, direct- 
ed by the master, lift the Iris carefully, and 
bear her into the sanctum of Abraham 
Blackwood, who then turned the key in 
the door and placed it in his pocket. 

“ I am not a child 1” said John Winter, in 
an irritated tone. 

“ Are you quite sure of that fact ?” said 
the master. “ I have been one all my life.” 

There was a moment’s silence ; the two 
men looked at each other. 

“ It is true,” said John at length, as if 
reading Abraham Blackwood’s thoughts. 
“ I would have broken the Iris with one 
blow. Why not? She mocks at me with 
her silly, simpering face. I have achieved 
nothing yet. When I think of the days and 
hours slipping away — Good God ! I must 
do something great !” 

The old sculptor made a slight inclina- 
tion of the head, full of derision. 

“Do something great, by all means,” he 
said. “ Take your banner, inscribed with 
Excelsior, oh youth ! and climb the Alp to 
its summit.” 

John Winter made no reply. He went 
home to his quarters, on the sixth floor of 
the old house, without seeing the people 
who brushed past him, and forgetting to 
take his dinner at the trattoria en route. 
Once sheltered in the rooms opening on 
the loggia, he abandoned himself to his 
own meditations. Neither Count Guigione, 
the subtle critic, nor Mrs. Bayard, the fickle 
patroness, could reach him here. His lamp 
burnt all night. 

Mr. Carpenter Jones, pursuing his inves- 


tigations of the city of Florence in search 
of such elements as might interest himself, 
became aware that Mrs. General Jefferson 
did not return. Her apartment remained 
closed. One day a placard appeared on the 
balcony railing, and a merchant dealing in 
old furniture might have been observed 
moving the articles he had purchased. Miss 
Bevis- Smith, in the strictest confidence, 
showed the note she had received to certain 
friends, behind the afternoon tea-urn. 

“I never quite believed in her, you know,” 
she said. “There was something — a little 
mysterious about her, do you not think ?” 

The lady had other interests at the mo- 
ment; whether it was due to the skill of 
the German doctor in applying a wet com- 
press when Bijou had an attack on the 
lungs, which elicited the gratitude of his 
mistress, or wdiether the hearts of both had 
been rendered susceptible by the Twelfth- 
night incantations of Count Guigione, this 
is not the place to decide ; but Miss Bevis- 
Smith married the Knight Siegfried soon 
after, and departed for the German bath of 
which he was the medical director, with her 
poodle under her arm. 

Thus vanished these two ladies from the 
foreign colony of a Continental city. No- 
body missed them ; nobody mentioned them; 
and, while neither lacked individuality, in a 
month all was as if they had never existed. 

Mrs. Bayard said : 

“ I knew that woman was not a lady, and 
she said she belonged to the regular army ! 
Not all the rings in Marchesina’s wrindows 
loaded on her fat and stuinpy fingers could 
have made her hands other than those of a 
cook !” * 

Thtfn even Mrs. Bayard forgot her unfort- 
unate rival — Mrs. General Jefferson. 

Mr. Carpenter Jones was unable to exe- 
cute his benevolent project of interesting 
Mrs. Bayard fn the statue of Iris. Great 
events, into /which all minor matters had 
been submerged, -were transpiring in the 
Giglio palace. 

One day Count Guigione wrote a little 
note requesting a private interview with 
Mrs. Bayard. She replied that she would 
receive him at two o’clock. The count ar- 
rived, serene and smiling. The ambitious 
mother had awaited him for half an hour 
with beating heart, aware that she had at- 
tained the goal : she had -won a title for 
her daughter Celia, Count Guigione came, 
as trusted friend of the family, to demand 
the hand of Celia in marriage for his young 


113 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

kinsman, the Prince del Giglio. The prin- 
cess had empowered him thus to act, and 
to arrange all settlements. The count did 
not find much difficulty in making the over- 
tures ; indeed, he was armed with many lit- 
tle weapons of delicate finesse which he was 
not required to use. Mrs. Bayard was will- 
ing to divide her property, settling half on 
Celia as a wedding dot , and reserving the 
remaining half for her own use during her 
lifetime, to revert to her child eventually. 

Her voice trembled with emotion as she 
made this concession. She was almost over- 
whelmed with the grandeur of her own 
power to establish her daughter in life. 
Her darling would be a princess ! 

“ I should not consent to the marriage if 
they did not love each other,” she said, still 
tremulously. 

“The sentiment is worthy of you, dear 
madame,” rejoined the count, beaming with 
satisfaction. “You are aware of the sole 
stipulation of the princess,” he added, 
lightly. 

“What is it?” demanded Mrs. Bayard, 
quickly. 

“Your daughter must become a Cath- 
olic.” 

Mrs. Bayard gazed into the fire. 

“ I will ask her,” she said at length. 

Then ensued an explanation of the law, 
under the present government, of the mar- 
riage of an Italian with a foreigner, which 
presents so many difficulties and delays — 
of certificates of birth and marriage of par- 
ents. 

Count Guigione was in the midst of these 
discussions when the door opened and Mr. 
Carpenter Jones entered unceremoniously. 
He shook hands tvith Mrs. Bayard and the 
count, then seated himself. He had just 
come from a two hours’ debate on philos- 
ophy and religion with Abraham Black- 
wood, and found himself braced and re- 
freshed in spirit. 

“I am going on to Paris this evening. I 
have about used up Florence, I guess,” he 
announced. 

Count Guigione drifted smoothly into 
general conversation. Mr. Carpenter Jones 
asked him if he was acquainted with the 
Italian minister at Cairo, and found some- 
thing to discuss in the existing administra- 
tion at Rome. Mrs. Bayard was slightly 
disconcerted by the intrusion of her coun- 
tryman at this moment, but resigned her- 
self to circumstances. Possibly Mr. Car- 
penter Jones might be very useful to her. 

8 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

At length the count withdrew, murmuring 
low, 

“ May I tell the prince ? He will be anx- 
iously awaiting me.” 

“ Yes,” replied Mrs. Bayard. 

Mr. Carpenter Jones observed the retreat- 
ing form of the Count Guigione. 

“An intelligent man,” he said, with mod- 
eration. 

“ Oh, he is the dearest creature 1” retort- 
ed Mrs. Bayard. “ Every one likes him so 
much here. Celia finds him so delightfully 
useful.” 

Mr. Carpenter Jones tilted back his chair, 
which creaked ominously on its slender 
legs. 

“ Look here, Mrs. Bayard,” he said, ab- 
ruptly ; “ why don’t you go home to Amer- 
ica, and take a nice cosy house in New 
York or Washington ? I should imagine 
you had seen enough of foreign lands by 
this time. As for living, I would as soon 
consider myself comfortable camping out 
in Trinity Church, stripped of its pews, 
and w T ith no fire in the furnace, as in this 
blessed palace 1” 

Mrs. Bayard laughed. 

“You were always a droll man, Mr. 
Jones,” she said, a trifle condescendingly. 

“ There is not a door properly hung in 
the whole place, unless it is that of the en- 
trance, which looks as if you anticipated 
being attacked with a battering-ram by 
your enemies. The day of battering-rams 
has gone by, I reckon. As for the han- 
dles and windows — why, Noah would have 
found them old-fashioned when he came 
out of the Ark. Besides, the rooms smell 
of mildew, fungus, old bones — whew !” 

Mr. Carpenter Jones had restored his 
chair to its four legs, and now sat bolt- 
upright in the energy of his speech. Mrs. 
Bayard again laughed softly, and shook 
her head. 

“ There is your girl,” added Mr. Carpen- 
ter Jones, with a pouncing swiftness of 
tone. “ She might marry well if you take 
her home now, before she is spoiled. Per- 
haps you own a house already ?” 

“ Yes, I own an old place in the country,” 
said Mrs. Bayard, the corners of her mouth 
twitching with suppressed amusement. 

“Will you ever live in it again ?” 

“No, never,” she responded, quickly. 

“ You rent the house, likely ?” 

“ No ; an old servant lives in it, and takes 
charge of the premises.” 

“Ah!” 


114 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

Mr. Carpenter Jones rose, and began to 
pace the floor. Mrs. Bayard could no lon- 
ger contain her thoughts. 

“ Mr. Jones, you are an old friend,” she 
said, affably. “ I wish to take you into my 
confidence — in fact, to ask your advice. Mr. 
Jones, we shall never return to America !” 

She looked at her companion triumph- 
antly, as if to mark the effect of her words. 

“Why don’t you sell your house in the 
country, then ?” interposed Mr. Carpenter 
Jones, promptly. 

“ Oh no ; I shall never sell it,” she said, 
a little taken aback by this new mode of 
attack. “ Listen ! The Prince del Giglio 
wishes to marry my daughter. They love 
each other ; I need not seek a husband for 
her in the United States, as you suggest. 
Besides, we are scarcely Americans now, 
we have lived abroad so long. One be- 
comes accustomed to different modes of 
life, you know. I adore this magnificent 
old palace which you find so uncomforta- 
ble. I never did fancy modern veneering 
of splendor, and sham walls, Mr. Jones. 
We must consider the papers; there are 
some difficulties in the civil contract. A 
marriage in church is no longer legal in 
Italy. I have been thinking of imploring 
you to go to America for the certificates. 
How they are to be obtained I am at a loss 
to imagine. Have we a registry of births, 
marriages, and deaths for every parish, as 
they have in England? I fear not. My 
testimonials of marriage can be procured, 
as Celia’s mother, but how can I produce 
the requisite documents concerning my 
parents ?” 

Mr. Carpenter Jones seated himself again. 
Surprise and doubt were depicted on his 
face. 

“ I could never marry here ; I don’t know 
anything about my grandfather,” he said, 
with alarming frankness. “I suppose I 
must have had one.” 

“ There is an alternative,” said Mrs. Bay- 
ard, musingly. “ They can be married in 
England.” 

“ Then I advise you to accept the alter- 
native,” said the other. “I don’t mind 
waiting round in London for the wedding, 
if I can be of any service to you.” 

“ Thank you,” she replied, feeling sud- 
denly very friendless and solitary in her 
new position. 

“You are bent on this match ?” 

“ They are devoted to each other,” said 
the mother, softly. 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

“ When I go home I must present a pe- 
tition to Congress for a new law, express- 
ly adapted to marrying our girls to Italian 
noblemen,” said Mr. Carpenter Jones, with 
a twinkle in his eye. “I suppose you 
know best, ma’am, but they have always 
seemed to me rather a scrubby lot. How- 
ever, if Celia has taken a fancy, she must 
have her own way.” 

“You are very unjust, Mr. Jones. The 
prince — ” 

Mr. Carpenter Jones interrupted her with 
this quotation, delivered in his most airy 
manner : 

‘“The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, 

The man’s the gowd for a’ that.’ ” 

That evening the mother and daughter 
wept in each other’s arms. 

“About the change of religion, dearest ?” 
said Mrs. Bayard, brushing the tears from 
Celia’s cheeks. 

Celia made an eloquent gesture. 

“ It is such a small sacrifice for him , mam- 
ma. Ah, I wish he would demand a great- 
er one, that I might be able to show him 
how willingly I would give up anything ! 
Besides, husband and wife should have the 
same creed.” 

Mrs. Bayard and her daughter became 
Catholics, under the guidance of the con- 
fessor of the princess, and accepted the 
change with all the fervor of converts car- 
ried away by their own emotions. 

Then they departed for Paris in the firm 
resolve that Celia’s trousseau should be 
worthy of a princess. It had been arranged 
that the wedding should take place in Lon- 
don in the month of May. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE HONEY- MOON. 

“My dear Mamma, — Do you remember 
the French romance we read aloud last 
year ? The heroine, as a bride, did not fly 
on the wings of happiness because she trod 
the stars. Eventually the poor girl found 
that her heaven was only made of blue 
paper, like stage scenery. Why should I 
think of the French heroine at this mo- 
ment, my own best mamma ? I cannot tell. 
I am the happiest girl in the world ! I am 
the wife of the one man I could love. I 
would have chosen Andrea out of the uni- 
verse. Oh, how I love you, and thank God 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

for so mucli joy. I ask myself every hour 
of the day how I have deserved my lot. 
I am unworthy of it. 

“ If you could see my husband now ! He 
is so tender, so courteous, so charming, and 
not too stately in his manners with a com- 
monplace little republican like your daugh- 
ter Celia. Sometimes he is boyish in his 
gayety, and we laugh together over the 
most absurd trifles all day long, because 
our mood is merry and our hearts are light. 

“I never wrote you a letter before in my 
life, madame. Are you aware of the fact ? 
We have never been separated for a whole 
day since I was born, have we ? When I 
tell Andrea this, he raises his eyebrows in 
surprise, and replies, 

“‘Now you are a married woman , cherieS 

“Yes, I am a married woman. Your little 
Celia will be a matron one of these days, 
like the rest of the world. (Andrea has 
read these lines over my shoulder ; he can 
read English very well, and he kisses my 
hair, which he declares will always be gold- 
en. Yes, he loves me !) Theresa behaves 
very well. She is devoted to me as ever. 
At Milan she wept with rage because my 
husband insisted on employing a French 
hair- dresser one evening to arrange my 
blonde tresses, of which he is so proud, for 
the opera. The little maid is never weary 
of sorting and arranging my wardrobe. I 
find her gazing in rapture at my embroid- 
eries and laces. Her respect for me is very 
much increased, either because I am now a 
princess, or as possessing such a magnifi- 
cent trousseau. She believes that your 
purse, dear mamma, is inexhaustible, and 
she asked me the other day if it was true 
that the ‘ Signora madre ’ owned a moun- 
tain or a river of gold in our own land. 

“ No, my heaven is not made of blue pa- 
per; it is the sky of Lake Como instead, 
and our days pass in a dream of pleasure. 
We have a suite of rooms at the Grand 
Hotel, Bellaggio, with marble balconies 
overlooking the lake ; and the Spliigen, cov- 
ered with snow, is visible above surround- 
ing mountains. These lakes seem too love- 
ly to be real. You half expect a curtain to 
fall and the scene to vanish away. Do 
you know, I think I have more appreciation 
of the beauties of nature than my husband. 
He smiles at my rapturous admiration. 
Possibly he is so accustomed to the loveli- 
ness of Italy that he accepts all unconscious- 
ly, and would miss his surroundings only 
if he lost them. 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 115 

“ When I tax him with such indifference, 
he shrugs his shoulders, and says, 

“ ‘ I prefer to live in my native Florence 
to all Italy, of course, but I should best like 
Paris.’ 

“ I wish you were here also, dear mamma, 
to enjoy the fine weather with us. In the 
morning we go out in such a dear little 
boat, like a shell, with awning spread, and 
red flag drooping astern. At this hour the 
mists about the base of the hills begin to 
melt away in the fiery sunshine ; a cool 
current of wind ripples the surface of the 
lake ; and all along the shores are gardens, 
which seem to be thickets of flowers and 
shrubbery. I could live in this little boat 
on Como with my husband by my side. All 
other men appear plebeian and ugly in com- 
parison with him ! I cannot resist telling 
him my thoughts sometimes, and he laughs, 
then kisses my hand or the folds of my 
dress with absolute adoration, since he may 
not embrace me on the lake. Yes, your 
Celia is becoming sadly spoiled by so much 
devotion. 

“Opposite is a villa rising from the wave 
like a mimic fortress, with vines drooping 
over the wall. A young girl, dressed in 
white, stands in one of the arches formed 
of dark, glossy foliage, and watches us as 
we pass. I am sure this lonely little bird 
envies me — the bride ! Farther on to-day 
I saw another girl, who interested me so 
much that I made the boatman pause be- 
neath the bank. This girl carried a burden 
of grass on her head ; her gown was faded 
and brown, her feet bare — save for the curi- 
ous sandal of the district — and crimson 
handkerchief knotted about her throat. She 
was so pretty — with the fine features and 
blooming cheeks of the girls and children 
of these lakes — that I tossed a gold coin on 
the shore, which danced and spun on the 
path before her. Who knows but she may 
have been a fiancee — one ofManzoni’s^rwie- 
sie sposi — and the gold piece will swell her 
dot? 

“ Sometimes we seek the side of Menag- 
gio, where the washerwomen kneel on the 
shingle at their daily task, with a heap of 
gayly-colored garments, still dripping, form- 
ing mosaic-work among the pebbles. Again 
our craft — which reminds me of Count Gui- 
gione’s gilded walnut-shells adrift on my 
aquarium the Evening of the Kings — dances 
acro ss to the farther bank, where the Fiume 
Latte descends in spray, the most southern 
of the Alpine glacier cascades. A flight of 


116 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


stone steps leads up to the hamlet above, 
which occupies a shelf of rock, and is di- 
vided by the water-fall. Here we amuse 
ourselves while the boatmen rest. If I was 
really clever at sketching I should attempt 
to depict these little houses, painted red 
and yellow — one of them decorated with a 
Mater Dolorosa in a blue mantle — with their 
picturesque roofs, and tufts of grasses grow- 
ing in fissures of the masonry. At this 
hour the church bell hangs mute in the 
belfry, which at vesper-time will send forth 
its sweet summons, echoed from shore to 
shore in the tender, purple twilight. In 
one window of the church are piled skulls, 
which seem -to grin behind the grating. 
The spectacle is horrible enough to freeze 
the song on the lips of this light-hearted 
people, one would suppose. 

“Women stand in their door-ways twist- 
ing flax ; they use the distaff and wheel of 
their grandmothers. In the wine-shop one 
hears the click of glasses, and the wagoner’s 
mules wait outside. A group of peasants 
hold a pole over a fire until bitten through 
by the flame, instead of using saws. I en- 
treat Andrea to make a picture of the 
pretty scene — as he can do anything — but 
he refuses. 

“ ‘ It would not be worth the trouble,’ he 
replies. ‘ I should like to be able to paint 
your portrait in your wedding-dress of 
white satin, made by Worth.’ 

“ I go into the church, draw out my ro- 
sary, and say my prayers, while the old 
women surround me, begging alms. My 
husband remains outside, chatting with the 
people, who evidently like him. The Prince 
del Giglio converses with the villagers en- 
tirely without condescension, and they re- 
ply without servility. He is charming with 
all ! Need I add that he loses nothing in 
my eyes because of his kindness to these 
poor villagers? The children flock after 
us, rosy and dark-eyed, dropping the bur- 
den of faggots, and ceasing to play in the 
sun. At the steps Andrea scatters a hand- 
ful of copper among them, and we descend 
to our boat. 

“ Then we seem to pass through a bath 
of golden sun as we return across the little 
lake of Lecco to the Bellaggio promontory 
once more. 

“You must recall how hot Bellaggio is 
of an afternoon; the whole place simmers 
in a white light, and without the relief of 
a single shadow. Our little boat, at four 
o’clock, wafts us over to the delicious cool- 


ness of Cadenabbia. We ramble along the 
shore, where the trees are clipped until they 
resemble parasols, and pause at the Villa 
Carlotta. My husband prefers this spot to 
all others. Naturally we spend most of our 
afternoons in these gardens, which form a 
paradise of citron and orange trees. Oh ! 
have you forgotten the fountain with the 
bronze god in the centre, and the roses 
looped across the basin in blooming gar- 
lands, the falling waters making them spar- 
kle with dew-drops ? Then the wide mar- 
ble steps above, leading to the door of the 
villa, the niche lined with exquisite ferns, 
and guarded by a rampart of calla lilies? 
You must have often paused here, dear 
mamma, to look back at the fountain, lake, 
and mountains. 

“Then the house, so cold and lofty in 
contrast with the day, like a frosty cave, 
the walls pale blue, with Thorwaldsen’s 
frieze of ‘Alexander’s Triumph’ along the 
cornice, and Venus and Mars in the central 
wall. I found again Canova’s ‘Cupid and 
Psyche,’ and am never weary of gazing at 
it. The charming, winning boy hovers on 
his white wings above the girl, who awaits 
his first kiss. My husband calls me the 
Psyche, but, indeed, he much more resem- 
bles Cupid. 

“Afterward we follow the paths at pleas- 
ure. Sometimes we find ourselves in a 
grove of trees, dark and warm and fragrant; 
again, we seat ourselves in the little belve- 
dere on the rock overlooking the lake. 
The waters resemble silver, and all the hills 
are enveloped in a haze, blue and golden 
from the heat in the clear atmosphere. 
Certainly Como is too lovely to be real, 
dear mamma. I could never describe the 
flowers about our belvedere. The slope is 
clothed in a great wave of color-azaleas 
and rhododendrons, lilac, mauve, and deep- 
est crimson; farther on, oleanders mingle 
their spicy odors with orange blossoms, and 
there are roses everywhere — bordering the 
path, making crescents in the grass, and 
forming whole arbors. 

“ Oh, the flowers, the sunshine, the happi- 
ness ! Do not be shocked if I seem giddy 
and wild ; it all mounts to one’s head. 

“ Sometimes I leave Andrea smoking his 
cigarette, and follow the custodian about. 
He believes that I am a botanist, and shows 
me with professional pride rare shrubs from 
distant lands— which possess a certain as- 
pect of mystery amidst their present sur- 
roundings — with leaves of a copper-green 


117 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

tint ; great flowers on massive stalks, which 
hold the rain-water on Como as in their na- 
tive swamps ; and virgin forests ; and trop- 
ical orchids, with wide - spangled petals, 
like the wings of a butterfly. I tell the 
old custodian that I like best the innocent 
calla lilies and familiar roses; his dusky 
exotics have a sinister aspect, as if they 
would w r ound you with the hairy surface 
of their flapping coarse leaves, or distil 
some poison to kill you in the cups of their 
purple and flesh-colored flowers. 

“We both laugh, and return to the bel- 
vedere the best of friends, where Andrea 
watches our approach, still smoking his ci- 
garette. Shall I confess it, my own moth- 
er ? — he is disposed to tease me a little on 
my interest in everything. He calls me a 
Yankee, full of curiosity. Where did he 
learn the term? — from some Englishman 
at Florence, I suppose. Should one be 
ashamed of wishing to learn to appreciate 
what is about them ? Thus, when I return 
with the gardener, Andrea smiles at me a 
trifle mockingly. 

“ * What an extraordinary race you Amer- 
icans are !’ he exclaims. 

“ I redden a little, and pout. 

“ ‘ What do you mean by extraordinary V 
I retort. 

“‘You are perpetually seeking some- 
thing, ma Idle. Why not be satisfied with 
the world as it is V 

‘“I am satisfied,’ I reply, softly, placing 
my hand on his shoulder. 

“We return to our little boat at sunset. 
If I were only a poet I would write you 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

some verses on the matchless beauty of the 
scene at this hour. What a pretty idea! 
A poem on the honey-moon, by the Princess 
del Giglio, for private circulation among 
her friends. I should compose it in French 
or German ; never in English ! All day 
the lake resembles the surface polish of ice, 
and now the water is of a liquid opal tint 
beneath a sky flushed to rose. The snow- 
peaks seem wrapped in a glory of light in 
the upper air, as if they might be transpar- 
ent, while the nearer hills are almost black, 
with a little white church perched on the 
slope. The air is so sweet with flowers 
that the boatman’s oar cleaving a crystal 
wave seems to disturb depths of perfumes 
as well, as if the bed of the lake was an 
orange -grove. Then the vesper bells be- 
gin to tinkle, echoing their chime from 
shore to shore: one would say that the 
sun and day were bidding farewell to the 
earth in these melodious tones. 

“ Andrea places his hand on my arm to 
prevent my springing up joyously and over- 
turning the boat. This is our day, dear 
mamma. 

“ What interest a bride always inspires ! 
Here every one watches for a glimpse of 
your daughter, and Andrea likes me to ap- 
pear in a new toilet each day. 

“ I must conclude here, my best mamma, 
in the hope of soon embracing you. A Rus- 
sian duke has asked to be presented to me. 

“ Madame, for the first time your Celia 
signs herself as, 

“ Principessa del Giglio, 

“ nata Bayard.” 


BOOK IV. 

MARRIED LIFE. 


CHAPTER I. 

DIFFERENCE OF RACE. 

Celia began her new life under bright 
auspices. Bride and bridegroom had re- 
turned to Florence from the honey-moon on 
Lake Como, in time to attend the recep- 
tion given by the Russian lady on the bank 
of the Arno, the night of the fete of St. 
John the Baptist. Celia had made her 
debut in the world to which she would 
henceforth belong — as a princess— attired 


in the Worth dress of white satin, so ad- 
mirably suited to her husband’s Italian love 
of splendor in apparel. 

The old princess welcomed the young 
people to her kingdom, the palace ; and the 
behavior of the daughter-in-law was very 
respectful. Then the latter gladly escaped 
from the ceremony to the arms of her own 
mother, who awaited her with smiles, tears, 
and lavish caresses. 

Mrs. Bayard still occupied her apartment 
in the Giglio palace ; the prince would have 


118 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

willingly set up liis household gods in the 
same establishment ; but Celia, so yielding 
in other respects, had a whim which must 
be gratified. Count Carmine Guigione, 
still beneficent household spirit, had ar- 
ranged matters to suit the caprices of the 
bride. 

The palace had a lower story still, adapt- 
ed to the uses of cellars, stables, and of- 
fices. Here oil and red wine in wicker 
flasks, produce of country property, were 
still sold to any worthy citizen desir- 
ing them. The traffic had dwindled, as 
vineyard and olive-grove became impover- 
ished, where once an activity had prevail- 
ed similar to that sale of the seigneur’s 
vintage which made of the concierge's 
lodge a cabaret, in the day when the French 
noblesse reigned supreme in the Faubourg 
St. Germain of Paris. The home of the 
Giglio, located on a narrow and dismal 
street, full of ignoble little huckster-shops, 
wore an aspect of aristocratic seclusion, 
with closed gates, and high wall enclosing 
a venerable garden. Great iron rings were 
inserted in the massive blocks of masonry 
of which the palace was built, and earlier 
held the torches of festivals in the days of 
the republic. 

In the vaulted vestibule a fresco, still 
fresh, adorned the arch, in imitation of all 
those sunny, enclosed galleries of the Vati- 
can. A classical Paris gave the apple to 
one of the ivory -limbed goddesses; tiny 
Neptunes and Tritons sported in amethyst- 
tinted waters. This fresco, with surround- 
ings of cold gray stone, had the aspect of 
a Sevres or Dresden dish inserted in the 
ceiling. A lamp of antique pattern was 
suspended below it, by means of chains of 
twisted brass. 

The court beyond was flanked by the 
building on three sides, and opened on the 
garden beyond. The flags of this court 
were green with moss ; a dilapidated foun- 
tain had ceased to play in the centre ; in 
the walls were inserted slabs commemora- 
tive of great Giglios, varied with fragments 
of ancient marbles, richly carved ; while at 
an angle near the entrance a bust of the 
pope of the family, with round, firm face 
and benignant expression, gazed down from 
his niche. On the fountain -basin, above 
the vestibule, and over the pope’s head, the 
arms of the family were visible — a shield, 
with a human hand and arm pointing to a 
star, on one quartering, and below, an open 
shell, emblematic of the birth of the pearl. 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

Here the old porter in his green livery and 
ample yellow waistcoat, like a wasp, ruled 
the lower domestic world. 

The stairway, wide and stately, led to the 
first floor, the piano nobile of the mansion. 
Above a door on the right a bust, in curl- 
ed wig and royal mantle, indicated, by 
means of gilded letters about the base, that 
in the year 17 — Petrus Leopoldus of Aus- 
tria honored this mansion by a visit. 

The stairway faced the great ball-room, 
which had remained silent and deserted 
many years, until transfigured by a borrow- 
ed ray of light, imparted by a stranger, 
when Mrs. Bayard gave a fancy ball on the 
Evening of the Kings. The builder of the 
palace had been a silk-weaver by trade, 
then a banker and broker, making heavy 
loans for spendthrift princes, and doing 
well to keep his head on his shoulders in 
an age of intrigue, crime, and violence, and 
finally die in his bed like a Christian. 

The apartment rented by Mrs. Bayard 
occupied one side of the ball-room ; on the 
other were the old rooms of the palace. 
Celia wished to dwell here. The prince 
smiled and shrugged his shoulders. 

“ You will soon weary of it, carina ,” he 
said, amused. “ The historical rooms have 
not been occupied this century.” 

“But I am now a Giglio, and I may in- 
habit them,” said Celia, with a wilful move- 
ment of her blonde head. “If we are 
bored later, mamma will take us in.” 

The prince still smiled. The convert to 
a new creed of religion or philosophy is 
more zealous, more intolerant, than one 
reared to the belief. The new branch 
grafted on an old tree frequently imbibes 
the pride of the parent sap to the verge of 
arrogance. 

The old princess lost her temper wdien 
she was informed of the wish of her dausrh- 
ter-in-law, in an interview with Count Gui- 
gione and her son. The sanctuary of the 
historical rooms invaded by a stranger, as 
her dwelling, aroused the jealousy and sus- 
picions of her nature, and even infringed 
unpleasantly on the rule she had swayed so 
long over the whole house. It is to be 
feared that words of anger and contempt 
escaped the noble lady’s lips on the occa- 
sion which would have blighted the un- 
conscious Celia had she heard them, and 
deeply wounded the heart of Mrs. Bayard. 
Both Count Guigione and the prince lis- 
tened w T ith the patience and prudence of 
Italian men in enduring the fiery wrath or 


119 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

petulance of a woman. She is then a creat- 
ure to be soothed, reassured, and restored 
to that good-humor necessary to the peace 
of the household, however much she may 
be deceived and duped immediately after- 
ward. The gentlemen deemed it best to 
yield to Celia’s whim in this matter, possi- 
bly in anticipation of a time when all 
her whims would not be readily granted. 
Count Guigione even hinted that it was 
further desirable to treat Mrs. Bayard with 
all possible consideration. The princess 
stormed for an hour — she was a woman of 
violent temper — and then subsided into a 
sullen and quivering acquiescence. 

“Make her promise not to touch any- 
thing, or carry articles away to her moth- 
er’s apartment,” she said, in her harshest 
tones. 

“ I will arrange all,” replied Count Gui- 
gione, kissing her hand. 

The match-maker was in liis most airy 
vein of good-humor. He was pleased with 
himself; and when he was greeted by his 
friends as the devoted cavalier of Mrs. Bay- 
ard, he deprecated the honor, aware that 
he gained reputation if he had added an 
item to the chronicle of scandal in his na- 
tive city, even by an absurd rumor. Count 
Guigione was cherishing another scheme 
for his fellow - creatures in his thoughts, 
which he hoped might develop with equal 
success as the happy marriage of Andrea 
del Giglio. 

The old princess had wholly withdrawn 
from the world on the death of her hus- 
band. Her widowhood was not profound- 
ly sorrowful, but she was already embitter- 
ed by experience. Her union with the 
late prince had not been, strictly speaking, 
a happy one, and for the latter half of their 
wedded existence they had occupied sep- 
arate wings of the palace, and met only 
on terms of dignified courtesy. Their es- 
trangement gave rise to fresh gossip with 
each month of the year — now on the score 
of the religions bigotry of the princess, 
now on account of the prince’s atheism and 
general lightness of morals. This domes- 
tic gulf did not prevent the pair from driv- 
ing out together daily in the family car- 
riage, and appearing at the Grand Duke’s 
court and the opera. Now the necessity 
of preserving the convenances, so dear to the 
Italian heart, was over, and the neglected 
wife, the soured woman, was at liberty to 
withdraw to the seclusion of her own apart- 
ment, and the fragrant, sunny garden. She 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

emerged from the great entrance of the pal- 
ace no more, save to attend early mass in a 
neighboring church. Her existence partook 
of none of the morose gloom of a recluse, 
however. Her day was over. She was un- 
able to sustain the grandeur of the house 
with the slender purse left in her keeping, 
after the drain on it of successive genera- 
tions. Her own dowry had not sufficed to 
meet her lord’s hereditary love of play. She 
was old, and might repose. That was all. 

The Princess del Giglio was a type of the 
past. Pride in herself and the name she 
bore sustained her in all misfortunes. The 
fibre of her resignation was more inflexi- 
ble, fierce, stubborn, than that of her pallid 
neighbor and friend — the Countess Vallam- 
broni — opposite. The two mothers would 
have liked to see their children marry, but 
poverty divided them. 

The princess was a native of Pistoja, and 
had brought a more illustrious lineage to 
the Giglio escutcheon than gold pieces to 
the family coffers. The last Giglio had not 
married beneath him, although the chron- 
icler Cambri complained, in 1512, of the de- 
plorable corruption which led the Floren- 
tine youth to marry money ; hence any low 
man could introduce his daughter into a 
noble family. She had once made a jour- 
ney to Rome, which was the extent of her 
travels. In her prime the golden youth did 
not sigh for Paris, or dream of a summer 
tour in Switzerland. The routine of life in 
the city, varied by the spring and autumn 
villeggiatura at her country-place, had am- 
ply satisfied her aspirations. 

When Count Guigione and her son left 
her, their adieux were scarcely heeded by 
her. She had yielded to their demand, but 
the concession had been reluctantly made. 
The princess possessed the thrift of her peo- 
ple in certain matters. The young couple 
could very well share the apartment of Mrs. 
Bayard, already rented, since their interests 
would be the same, she reflected. Instead, 
the bride wished to occupy the historical 
rooms. The demand was so unexpected as 
to arouse the anger of the older woman. 
Her first wrath had spent itself, but her vig- 
ilance remained. She was confident some 
motive was concealed in this apparent ca- 
price. She decided to establish a system 
of intercourse with little Theresa, well aware 
that Celia’s maid would not dare to conceal 
anything which she, the true Princess del 
Giglio, desired to learn. 

Her bias of thought, transmitted to her 


120 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


through generations of ancestors, was sim- 
ilar to that of Pope Clement, as described 
by Mr. Adolphus Trollope : an intelligence 
acquainted with falsehood, and skilled to 
track it through -every cunning shift, pos- 
sessing deep knowledge of the human heart, 
and yet incapable of comprehending any 
of the nobler forms of human nature, and 
characterized by an ignorance of truth at 
least as profound as the perception of du- 
plicity. The ripe civilization of which the 
old Princess del Giglio was the natural 
product, possesses the disadvantage that 
swift conviction of evil sometimes blunts a 
ready perception of virtue. 

The abode of the noble lady was unat- 
tractive. The walls of the salon which she 
now occupied w T ere colored a frightful yel- 
low, with a red border ; the floor was bare, 
and of polished stone, with a rug spread 
before the table ; the furniture was of faded 
tapestry of a greenish hue. Near a window 
hung an ivory crucifix, worthy of Giovanni 
di Bologna. 

The princess, in a robe of purple moire, 
also faded, sat in a carved chair with a 
stiff back, her feet on the rug, her hands 
folded in her lap. Here she sat, winter and 
summer, age failing to impair the natural 
elegance and haughtiness of her bearing. 
She was a great lady. No person could 
have failed to accord her such homage, 
with an instinctive deference, although her 
features were sharp, her face wrinkled and 
as yellow as parchment, while her voice 
possessed the strident parrot tones so fre- 
quently belonging to the Tuscan woman. 

In winter her casements were open as 
much as possible during the sunny hours 
of day. The princess, at this season, as- 
sumed a furred mantle, and held her fin- 
gers or feet over a scaldino, which differed 
from that of her poor sister, shivering at 
the street - corner — with the little brazier 
wrapped in her apron— in being made of 
brass, with an embossed lid. The same 
deadly fumes of charcoal were brought 
alike to the lungs of the princess and the 
needle-woman. In summer the windows 
were closed, and especially at night, while 
the sprinkled floors of the darkened cham- 
bers imparted an additional chill to the al- 
ready humid atmosphere. If the princess 
was ill, she summoned no physician, and 
took no modern drugs, distrusted as rank 
poisons, but she had herself freely bled. 
“One has always too much blood,” was her 
creed. 


Her hours passed tranquilly. There was 
a piece of tapestry-work in the frame in 
the corner, representing the “Flight into 
Egypt.” When she received visits from the 
Countess Vallambroni, Count Guigione, and 
her son, which occurred frequently, the tap- 
estry-wmrk was wheeled out, and she made 
several stitches. The task progressed so 
slowly, however, that Joseph’s robe — long 
completed — was a trifle faded, while the 
ass carrying the young mother and Child 
stepped with one gray leg on a void of 
white canvas, and threatened never to fin- 
ish the journey. No daily journal found its 
way to this salon with the yellow walls. 
The princess seldom read, and never a new 
book. A volume of Dante, and a second 
of Boccaccio, comprised her library. 

“ Why does she wish to occupy the his- 
torical rooms ?” mused the princess, shaking 
her head. “We shall see sooner or later.” 

Concerning this daughter-in-law, she dis- 
approved of her from every point of view, 
human and divine. The fallen fortunes of 
the house required that her son should 
marry a foreign heiress. She submitted to 
the necessity. Where in Italy could be 
found a bride with the dowry of Celia Bay- 
ard ? Ah, where indeed ! unless among the 
men of the North, followers of the new 
king, all of w 7 hom she regarded with dis- 
dain. An impartial observer might demand 
to know w r hy the House of Savoy w 7 as not 
of sufficiently ancient nobility to command 
the respect of this noble Tuscan lady. Ce- 
lia, the American girl, was consumed in 
the fiery crucible of the old princess’s prej- 
udices. She criticised her with much the 
same severity which the French bourgeoisie 
bestowed on the Empress Euggnie when, 
as Mademoiselle cle Montijo, she visited, 
with her mother, foreign capitals and Ger- 
man watering-places. A young girl should 
be kept in a convent until her parents have 
arranged a suitable marriage for her, and 
not be seen trooping about the world at 
baths and balls. After marriage the pater- 
nal cares diminish ; the butterfly, granted 
that freedom which the nuptial ceremony 
bestows, may enter society on giddy wings 
of pleasure. Mrs. Bayard and Celia, out in 
the world for their own gratification, moved 
the contempt of the old princess. Clearly 
they could hold no position in their own 
land to be willing to thus abandon it. She 
even suspected that some darker cloud, 
possibly a crime, had driven them forth to 
exile. What did it matter ? If Celia’s dot 


121 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

was not applied to gilding the tarnished 
Giglio shield, it would inevitably fall tb 
the share of some other decayed noble 
house. All foreigners were alike to her 
mind— barbarians. The English heiress was 
less vague, perhaps, as possessing a certain 
solid claim to title sometimes, as well as 
the requisite golden guineas. The Ameri- 
can hovered on the most perplexing border- 
land of the unknown. The American con- 
tinent was a veritable terra incognita to 
her ; nor did she deem it necessary that it 
should be otherwise. If the bread she ate 
was made of flour brought from the abun- 
dant harvests of the New World, she did 
not reflect on the matter. There was some- 
thing naive in the very narrowness of her 
egotism. What more natural than that 
Mrs. Bayard and Celia should strive to 
cultivate themselves by seeking Florence ? 
Again, for what better end could wheat be 
cultivated on vast prairies than to be waft- 
ed to her respective baker ? Mrs. Bayard 
and her daughter w T ere barbarians, in her 
estimation, toned down a little by some 
years of foreign residence, but they could 
not be expected to know everything. Their 
ancestors were Indians. The princess had 
once seen a picture of a North American 
redskin, in war-paint and feathers, whom 
she afterward associated with the nation 
as its progenitor. These ladies were here- 
tics — a fault of graver magnitude, in her 
eyes, than their origin. Both of them had 
evinced remarkable docility in abandoning 
a former false creed. Without this con- 
cession the princess would have inevitably 
broken the match. Andrea could not have 
stooped so low as to wed a heretic while 
she lived. Never, with her consent, would 
Protestants and Russians of the Greek 
Church have been accorded another place 
of burial than the corner of San Miniato 
devoted to suicides and criminals, instead 
of receiving sepulture in the crowded lit- 
tle cemetery where sleep Elizabeth Barrett 
Browning and Theodore Parker. She had 
plucked out the root of error, and brought 
these strangers within the fold. She ac- 
cepted their change of faith as entirely ra- 
tional on their part. 

Why did the young princess wish to oc- 
cupy the historical rooms? The noble 
mother-in-law, in her robe of purple moire, 
which made her appear more shrivelled 
and sallow, sat on her stiff chair and re- 
flected. 

In the mean while Celia had entered the 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

new kingdom, followed by her husband and 
Count Guigione. Neither of these gentle- 
men had informed her of the objections of 
the old princess to her intrusion here. The 
historical suite of thejGiglio palace opened 
to receive the latdff bride in tlitstfhir and 
slender girl of another race. Celia, with the 
characteristic adaptability inherent in del- 
icate and yielding natures, entered this un- 
wholesome atmosphere of the past, from 
which she was destined never again to 
emerge. 

In the cold and narrow vestibule were 
urns of Etruscan design, mediaeval tablets 
inserted in the walls, and a table of agate, 
mounted in gilt, bearing the bust of Tasso, 
which rumor had pronounced already sold 
to a Manchester man at the fete of St. John 
the Baptist. This fine head, delicate and 
spiritual, with lines of care or thought on 
the brow, and features almost transparent 
in the mellow tones of the marble, confront- 
ed the bride on the threshold, and inspired 
her with a certain awe. The adjoining 
room was bare, and devoid of other decora- 
tion than the Giglio shield above the door. 
Cases lined the walls and extended down 
the centre of the floor, filled with precious 
wood - cuts and drawings, carefully ar- 
ranged — the horses and cavaliers of Albert 
Durer, the saints of Vandyck, the goddess- 
es of the Caracci. In a separate compart- 
ment were several missals, wrought for de- 
vout Giglios by monkish skill. Here St. 
Catharine of Siena appeared, adorned with 
every device of symbol and color, on gold- 
en leaves; there a little volume revealed 
the brush of Benozzo Gozzoli in trains of 
minute warriors, checked abruptly, midway, 
at a blank white page. The floors of red 
tiles were uneven; each narrow window, 
with its tiny panes of glass, was approached 
by a flight of marble steps, while the depth 
of wall afforded space for a seat of stone 
on either side. Grim and opaque case- 
ments, guarded by stout iron bars, still sug- 
gestive of the necessity to reconnoitre such 
enemies of the street as a city in revolt. 

Celia traversed old chambers, where the 
family portraits were grouped, solemnly 
observant of intruders, containing cabinets 
richly carved, or inlaid with ivory and mo- 
saic, which treasured specimens of Persian 
ware colored like Oriental fabrics, salvers, 
and flagons in silver filigree. She paused 
in others where the hangings, once rose- 
pink and wrought with silver, had faded 
to the semblance of withered flowers, in 


122 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

harmony with quaint chairs and frayed tap- 
estries. 

Beyond were three smaller rooms, com- 
municating, and without furniture. The 
walls of this suite were draped in cloth-of- 
gold,won by victorious Giglios in the races, 
centuries ago. The bare floor and disman- 
tled casements formed a mocking contrast 
with the superb fabric clothing the walls 
in richest folds, the first brilliant lustre of 
the gold thread subdued to amber and 
brown by the lapse of years. 

“ What rooms for a second fete of the 
Kings !” whispered Celia, nestling closer to 
the side of her young husband. 

Count Guigione had already entered the 
state nuptial chamber, and directed a ser- 
vant to open the shutters. The window 
overlooked the court and garden, but did 
not suffice to enliven the sombre richness 
of the interior. Crimson velvet, shot with 
gold, and still soft to the touch, draped the 
casement ; the walls formed the canopy of 
the bed, within gilded railings, the coverlet 
and curtains heavily fringed with bullion. 
The pillows were white satin. Beside this 
magnificent couch was suspended a diptych, 
the golden background revealing saints 
through the veil of tissue which enveloped 
it. Above the outer door was an “ Annun- 
ciation” of Luca della Robbia, the Madon- 
na and Child surrounded by a garland of 
green leaves and fruit. In the walls were 
several little doors, half concealed by the 
hangings, which imparted to the place a 
truly mediaeval character. They were wick- 
ed and stealthy little doors, suggestive of 
lurking assassins, of cautious builders, ready 
to flee from pursuing enemies— of all deeds 
of darkness. The adjacent bath-room was 
converted to a temple of beauty by means 
of four attendant Graces, who appeared to 
support the corners. 

The bride was startled by her own au- 
dacity in desiring to dwell here. Count 
Guigione reassured her in his most caress- 
ing voice. 

“Never has a fairer bride honored the 
marriage-chamber with her presence,” he 
said. 

Celia blushed, but* tears came into her 
eyes— proud and happy tears. 

“I shall have Michael Angelo’s ‘Fates’ 
jflaced here,” she said, indicating a good 
position for the picture. 

“ A strange fancy,” murmured the count, 
doubtfully. 

“ Then I will order a copy of Raphael’s 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

‘ Madonna del Cordellino,’ ” said the prince, 
laughing. 

“The head is like that of the princess, 
and the subject more agreeable,” said the 
Count Guigione. 

The prince produced a key. 

“ Now we must look at the chef -d' oeuvre ,” 
he said. 

He led the way to a closet carefully 
closed. A long, narrow picture, enclosed 
in a box, occupied this place. The prince 
took a second tiny key from his pocket, in- 
serted it in this case, and opened the two 
leaves which closed over the surface of the 
picture. The light of the window revealed 
a “ Cupid,” by Correggio, mending his bow, 
and trampling with his naked foot on open 
books, while glancing archly over his shoul- 
der. The lightness and vigor of the boyish 
limbs, the head of curling hair, the mock- 
ing gayety of eye and smiling mouth, each 
betrayed the Parma master. 

The Correggio in the locked closet told 
its own tale. The picture had been placed 
here for private exhibition and sale. 

Count Guigione viewed wuth reverence 
another treasure of this closet. This was a 
small white dish, decorated with blue flow- 
ers, and placed under glass. It was a speci- 
men of the Medici china, the first porcelain 
fabricated in Europe under the Grand-duke 
Francesco I., in the manufactory of the Bo- 
boli Garden. 

The prince turned to his wife with a 
beaming smile ; his brilliant eyes grew hu- 
mid, his full red lip quivered. He associ- 
ated her with the preservation of these 
treasures, and she thus appeared to him in 
her most gracious aspect. 

“ I love you !” he exclaimed, with sudden 
passion, and drew her blonde head to his 
shoulder, entirely oblivious of the presence 
of Count Guigione. 

Celia trembled with a sentiment of blend- 
ed fear and rapture. These tropical storms 
of tenderness which frequently swept over 
the soul of her husband, expending their 
force in caresses, flatteries, exaltation verg- 
ing on sobs and tears, bewildered and in- 
toxicated her, while filling her heart with 
the sweetest joy. Here was the element of 
power in her realm. She was necessary to 
the happiness of another life. Had not this 
lover told her so, many times, with his lips 
pressed to her own ? 

Count Guigione, discreetly unobservant, 
and with a lenient smile on his face, lock- 
ed the closet once more. 


123 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

The prince no longer thought of exter- 
nal objects ; his eyes rested on Celia. 

“ If you wish it, we will have a second 
Evening of the Kings in the rooms hung 
with cloth -of- gold,” he said, passing his 
arm around her waist, as they followed the 
count back to the large sala of the por- 
traits. 

“We shall grow old together here,” 
mused Celia. “Will you continue to love 
me when my hair is gray ?” 

“ Yes, a thousand-fold better than now,” 
he replied. 

Celia the bride had already lost a trait 
belonging to Celia the young girl — a certain 
deprecating modesty, as if the wealth of 
Nehemiah Methley were still a surprise to 
her. A tranquil complacency, little graces 
of manner, bordering on affectation, were 
now apparent. Was it unnatural if she 
found the world a paradise, and herself a 
pleasing if not indispensable feature of its 
charm ? Vanity and self-consciousness had 
already brushed away the bloom of the 
ripening fruit. She had made a great mar- 
riage ! She was a princess ! Every one 
envied, admired, and respected her. She 
seldom thought of the Contessina Olga, 
sulking in her dark palace across the street. 
She had forgotten John Winter, the sculp- 
tor, unless confronted by her own bust in 
her mother’s salon ; Mrs. General Jefferson 
and Miss Bevis-Smith had wholly passed 
from her mind. Now the cards showered 
in her door bore coronets. 

Celia wished to again inspect the por- 
traits. Count Guigione placed an arm- 
chair for her, and a footstool beneath her 
little feet. He was in his proper element 
here, and the story of each picture flowed 
readily from his lips. The prince, on the 
contrary, was very much bored with the 
recital of the glorious deeds of his ances- 
tors. He openly derided the head-gear of 
one stately princess, and the dimensions of 
her waist, with that flippancy of speech 
which sounded like keenest wit to the ear 
of his wife. He hung over her chair, play- 
ed with her necklace, and raised a stray 
curl to his lips with lover-like ardor of de- 
votion. The count received these inter- 
ruptions a trifle gravely and stiffly, but he 
had no reason to complain of Celia as a 
listener. The old portraits fascinated her. 
A new-born pride led her to familiarize 
herself with the history of the race. Was 
she not one of them ? 

The central portrait was that of Andrea 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

del Giglio, a man of haggard face, witli 
wild black hair falling on either side of 
his temples, and wrapped in a brown cloak 
bordered with fur. His name had been 
perpetuated in the christening of one son 
in each generation. 

“But this first Andrea has a strange ex- 
pression; he looks dark and cruel. Tell 
me about him, dear Count Guigione,” said 
Celia. 

The count shrugged his shoulders. 

“There is little to tell, except that he 
boasted of having descended from Catiline. 
He lived in rough times, and was a great 
seigneur, holding feudal tenures in the 
country before the commonwealth obliged 
unruly nobles to dwell in the town.” 

“ Nothing more ?” queried Celia, holding 
her head on one side, and glancing archly 
at Count Guigione. 

The latter scanned her face steadily, even 
sharply, before replying. She remembered 
the circumstance later. 

“ Absolutely nothing,” he said. 

Here was the portrait of a Giglio who 
obeyed the law by coming to take up his 
residence in the city, despising the plebeian 
citizens, and converting his house into an 
isolated fortress from which to pelt his 
foes with missiles and cross-bows. 

Here was a Giglio who went forth to 
war beside the Carroccio, the platform car, 
drawn by bullocks, with its two masts, from 
which hung the standards of the city ; those 
campaigns against rival cities varied by 
games played beneath the walls of the en- 
emy, and even such pranks as flinging a 
dead ass, wearing a mitre, over the rampart. 

Here was a Giglio who throve in the days 
when the Palazzo Tosinglii, near the Mer- 
cato Nuovo, still reared its fagade, consist- 
ing of four stories of columns, like those of 
Pisa’s leaning tower, razed later by popu- 
lar hatred, which demolished, sacked, and 
scourged so often beautiful Florence. 

A Giglio, slain in the wars waged against 
the commonwealth, by Castruccio Castra- 
cani of Lucca, gazed down from a fading 
canvas, with hollow eyes. A knight lean- 
ed on his sword-hilt, who was .present on 
a certain summer morning when Pope 
Gregory X., accompanied by the long-nosed 
Charles of Anjou and the Flemish Crusader 
Baldwin, commanded peace after the long 
feuds of Guelph and Ghibelline. The Arno 
bed was dry near the Ponte alle Grazie, and 
no pomp of circumstance was lacking on 
the occasion. 


124 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

“ Kiss and be friends,” quoth the pope. 

A Giglio, in rich Venetian costume, flash- 
ed a haughty glance over his shoulder, as 
if proud of his intrigues with Frederic 
Barbarossa, in the time when Venice did 
not deign to notice shopkeeping Florence, 
unless in need of her as an ally. A Giglio 
wore the robes of cardinal, who had been 
present at the Pisan council which deposed 
the Popes Benedict and Gregory, electing 
instead a Pope Alexander. The Giglio 
who had feasted madly on the brink of the 
grave in time of plague was placed side 
by side with the Giglio who lost his home 
in the Oltz’ Arno quarter, when the popu- 
lace stormed the bridges and plundered 
the Bardi palaces. Beyond was the hand- 
some and polished Giglio, who frequent- 
ed the Ruccellai garden of Orte Orcellani 
when Machiavelli was also a guest. 

The later Andrea, who had built the 
present palace, smiled on Celia with a full, 
rosy face, smoothly shaven. This Andrea, 
having exchanged the sword for the ledger, 
was a business-man. His fat, white fingers 
toyed with a little velvet bag; his eye, 
quick, furtive, small, roved in search of 
fresh enterprises — as banker of kings and 
princes, and rival of the Mozzi, Spini, and 
Strozzi counting-rooms. There was not 
lacking, in this august company, a priest 
who had served under Leo X. ; and, in a 
remote corner, a Giglio belonging to the 
band of riotous youths who opposed Savo- 
narola after his excommunication. 

Was not the golden florin worshipped as 
much in that day as the dollar of our 
own? How would that talented family, 
the Medici, have ever made a name in his- 
tory without their money ? 

The young couple were soon installed in 
this silent quarter of the palace. The grim 
countenances of the “ Fates ” peered down 
from the wall of the nuptial chamber, 
while Raphael’s “Madonna del Cordellino,” 
opposite, neutralized their baleful spell. 
All the light of the room seemed concen- 
trated on the beautiful girl -mother, and 
the Christ and St. John at her feet, the for- 
mer extending one dimpled hand to pro- 
tect the little bird. 

The bride permitted her fond mother to 
spread Persian carpets and Turkish rugs 
on the floors, and divans to relieve the bar- 
ren void of great chambers. The suite 
hung with cloth-of-gold must not be touch- 
ed. They were held sacred from modern 
innovations. Altogether, the sombre dis- 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

comfort of her new abode did not discour- 
age her. Summer was already pouring its 
heat on the town. 

Celia flitted across the ball-room fre- 
quently to her former home. How lonely 
the other apartment was without her poor 
Mrs. Bayard did not dare to confess, even 
to herself. 

“I fear my new mother does not like 
me,” said Celia, one day, with a perplexed 
expression. “Andrea laughs at me when 
I say so.” 

The same doubt had troubled Mrs. Bay- 
ard. 

“She must learn to love you in time, 
dearest,” she said, soothingly. 

“ His own mother 1” sighed Celia. “ It 
seems very cruel.” 

The old princess had almost daily inter- 
course with Mrs. Bayard and Celia. Visits 
were exchanged of a somewhat formal nat- 
ure; she dined frequently in both apart- 
ments. The coldness of her manner fright- 
ened the bride. The latter was piqued, 
irritated, and disconcerted by a real or 
imaginary dislike, and the circumstance 
acquired importance in her eyes above any 
public popularity she might have won in 
her new position. The prince made light 
of her fears. 

“ After all, it cannot signify,” said Mrs. 
Bayard. “ She is an old lady, and has re- 
tired from society. Possibly she is a lit- 
tle jealous of a daughter-in-law. I have 
thought of resuming my Italian lessons, 
my pet, as I have so many hours of leisure 
now. The barrier between the princess 
and myself might be removed if I spoke 
her language more fluently. 

“ True,” assented Celia. “Oh, mamma, 
I have a happy thought ! I should like to 
please her. Come with me, quickly !” 

She led Mrs. Bayard to the nuptial 
chamber, and opened one of the little 
doors concealed by the hangings. The 
mother glanced around her in surprise. 

“ It reminds me of Mrs. Radclifle’s tales. 
Do you know where these doors lead ?” 

Celia laughed, and nodded. 

“ This one leads to a little crooked stair, 
and must open on the garden ; that one is 
locked. I have tried them all. It is such 
fun ! Now follow me.” 

Mrs. Bayard stepped carefully along the 
passage and descended a flight of steps. 
At the bottom, Celia pushed open a door. 
The mother uttered an exclamation of sur- 
prise. She stood in the private chapel 


125 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

which she had once visited on Holy Thurs- 
day. The Jerusalem sepulchre was strip- 
ped of flowers, the frescoes were obscure ; 
two tapers burnt feebly before the shrine 
of the Madonna. 

This Madonna, in a niche with silk cur- 
tains drawn before it, was a sacred relic 
handed down from daughter to daughter 
in the family of the old princess, who had 
received it on her wedding-day and placed 
it here. The statue was of wood, small, 
rudely carved, and dark. Gilded crowns 
surrounded the heads of mother and child. 
Both were dressed in brocaded satin, and 
silver hearts were attached to their arms. 
There was a certain solemnity about this 
dark image in its shrine. What prayers 
may have been uttered before it in sorrow, 
need, and bitter repentance! What can- 
dles may have illuminated it in the wild 
delusions of hope ! The black Madonna 
remained unchanged. 

“ I will trim her robe with jewels,” said 
Celia. “ Let us keep it a secret until the 
birthday of the princess. Will you pay for 
the gift, dear mamma, so that I need not 
ask Andrea for the money ? I do not quite 
like asking for money yet, and he pays for 
everything.” 

“ The whim may be too extravagant,” 
said Mrs. Bayard, shaking her head. 

Celia reflected. 

“ I shall take the padre into my con- 
fidence, and nobody else. Perhaps the 
princess will like us better afterward.” 

The bride went about with an air of mys- 
tery until the birthday of the princess ar- 
rived. At a suitable hour she went with 
her husband to congratulate her mother- 
in-law on the happy event. Celia received 
a frosty kiss on the forehead; the son a 
warm, maternal embrace. At the same mo- 
ment the amiable padre arrived, and smil- 
ingly requested the princess to descend to 
the chapel, where he had permitted himself, 
as a priest and relative, to arrange a little 
fete in her honor. She complied, followed 
by her companions. Mrs. Bayard and Count 
Guigione were already in the chapel. The 
altar was lighted with multitudes of can- 
dles ; the image appeared, her robe border- 
ed with rubies and pearls, while a row of 
brilliants encircled her brow beneath the 
gilded crown. Fresh flowers filled the 
chancel. 

“ Who has done this ?” inquired the prin- 
cess, in a low voice. 

The priest indicated her daughter -in - 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

law, with a graceful and dignified gest- 
ure. 

The old princess took Celia’s hand and 
that of the prince, advanced to the feet 
of the Madonna, and prostrated herself in 
prayer. Even Count Guigione, most airy 
of sinners, knelt. 

The mother-in-law dined with Mrs. Bay- 
ard that evening, and was unusually affa- 
ble in demeanor. Later the young people 
went to the theatre, and she withdrew to 
her own abode. 

Silence settled on the historical rooms, 
with their ghostly draperies and pictures ; 
even the servants had sought the court and 
garden for an evening’s gossip. The secret 
door in the nuptial chamber, which Celia 
had found locked, opened, and a female fig- 
ure appeared, carrying a lamp. She wore a 
long robe of purple moire ; her velvet slip- 
pers glided over the floor without sound. 
It was the old princess. She passed from 
room to room, carefully inspecting each 
with the aid of her lamp; then she returned 
to the nuptial chamber, opened the second 
door, and descended the crooked stair to 
the garden. She paused here a long time, 
and examined the ponderous rusted lock, 
the chain, and bolts. Then she returned 
slowly, muttering to herself, 

“ She is young and giddy. Vanity may 
turn her head.” 

Having completed this inspection, the 
key turned in the small door, the old prin- 
cess vanished, and the sombre chambers 
were left as silent as before her entrance. 


CHAPTER II. 

A SECOND LITTLE AFFAIR OF THE COUNT 
GUIGIONE. 

Celia’s interest in her abode did not di- 
minish with the unfolding summer. She 
contemplated the portraits of the great sola 
for hours, weaving a thread of romance into 
the story of each, as rendered by Count 
Guigione. She even ventured into the clos- 
et where hung the Correggio, and discov- 
ered, in the corner, a collection of minia- 
tures painted on ivory and copper. These 
heads, smiling, rosy, and delicate, whether 
of court ladies with curled blonde tresses 
or of dignified gentlemen with powdered 
hair tied in a queue, charmed the bride. 
She experienced the pride of a discoverer. 

Count Guigione was summoned in all 


126 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE ; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


haste; the miniatures were given a place 
of honor, in a case of fresh velvet, above 
the missals. 

Mrs. Bayard shared these hours of explo- 
ration — these reveries before old pictures, 
in the drowsy noon — more frequently than 
the prince. The ladies had the Correggio 
brought to light, and hung in the large 
sala, although suffered to retain the pro- 
tecting box. 

One day Celia, who felt herself in the 
position of the child of the fairy tale — ever 
on the brink of fresh wonders — had the cu- 
riosity to open the door leading to the 
crooked stair and garden. Her foot dis- 
turbed some object, which, fell over on the 
landing with a dull reverberation. She 
stooped, raised it, and returned to the light. 
It was the canvas of a picture without a 
frame, and covered with dust. Celia’s eye 
sparkled. She brushed away the dust and 
cobwebs with the first article she could find, 
and which happened to be a handkerchief 
of delicate lace. Shade of Nehemiah Meth- 
ley ! A lace handkerchief to clean a pict- 
ure! 

The portrait was old and cracked. It 
represented a young woman with a pensive 
oval face, her hair confined in a jewelled 
cap ; a satin ruff enclosed her throat ; and 
one slender hand, with a large ring on the 
forefinger, holding the links of a massive 
gold chain which was wound about her 
neck and fell to the waist. 

Celia flew to her mother with this treas- 
ure, then presented it to the inspection of 
Count Guigione and the prince. 

“Who was she?” inquired the bride, 
eagerly. “ Oh, what a lovely and sad face, 
with great dark eyes !” 

The gentlemen were amused by her en- 
thusiasm. The prince twirled his mus- 
tache, and confessed, somewhat indifferent- 
ly, that he had never seen the picture be- 
fore. Count Guigione reflected. 

“ She was a Spanish lady, who married 
the son of the builder of this palace. I be- 
lieve she was an orphan,” this oracle finally 
explained. 

“Ah! she was a stranger, and nobody 
cared for her,” said Celia, flashing a re- 
proachful glance at her husband. “This 
portrait was left on a landing and forgot- 
ten, as mine will be at some future day.” 

“A servant stole the frame, probably,” 
said the prince, taking a wholly practical 
view of the misfortunes of the Spanish 
lady. 


Celia warmly espoused the cause of the 
neglected beauty. 

“ She had a history, I am confident, and 
neither of you know it, because you are 
unfeeling, cruel,” she said, petulantly. 

Then she placed the canvas on the floor, 
below the case of the Correggio “ Cupid,” 
and opened the latter. There was no ob- 
ject in the palace as bright as the boy-god, 
trampling the wise tomes, which lay un- 
clasped, with his pretty foot, and brimming 
with merriment at his own prank. The soft 
wings attached to his shoulders seemed to 
flutter. 

The following morning Mrs. Bayard ac- 
companied Celia to one of the public libra- 
ries. Here the latter soon found what she 
sought — ancient chronicles of the common- 
wealth, in which the name of Giglio fre- 
quently appeared, and volumes of heraldry 
and family history. Mrs. Bayard went with 
the librarian to look at one of the tiniest 
copies of Dante in the world of print. Celia 
pored over the records in search of the 
pensive Spaniard. Her eye was arrested by 
a brief narration of the career of the first 
Giglio — the haggard man, with the w T ild 
black hair, in the brown mantle. 

The events of his life were given with 
the simplicity and shrewdness of old writ- 
ers. Andrea del Giglio, lord of the Apen- 
nine Castle, ruled like Malatesta of Rimini, 
levying tribute on the country, and swoop- 
ing down to harry the farms occasionally, 
in the fine old time when feudal barons 
were brigands of a noble sort. This Giglio 
went further. Having for a rival the lord 
of another castle, he planned his downfall 
and the extermination of the family, root 
and branch. The neighbor was murdered 
in his bed by a Free Lance, then his wife 
and two sons, after which the noble Giglio 
seized the daughter, married her, and laid 
claim to all possessions in her name. Ru- 
mors of the high-handed measure did not 
fail to reach papal ears and the city of 
Florence, much occupied at this date with 
threatened invasion of foreign foes and 
tournaments and public festivities, where 
each citizen strove to eclipse the splendor of 
the others. The boldness and address of 
the border chief carried him safely through 
the difficulty, and he remained unmolested. 

This was the Giglio regarded as the 
founder of the noble line whose name was 
perpetuated in each generation. 

Celia grew cold with terror as she read. 
Count Guigione had said there was noth- 


127 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

ing to tell about this man, and had looked 
at her searchingly to see if she knew his 
history. What if more than his name was 
transmitted from father to son ? She turn- 
ed the pages idly; she had forgotten to 
search for the Spanish lady. 

“ This must be your beauty, dear,” said 
Mrs. Bayard, reading over Celia’s shoulder. 

The Spanish girl had been the heiress 
of vast possessions in Sicily and the Neth- 
erlands. On the death of her lord in a 
street fray, she had retired to a convent of 
more severe rule than the Murate. 

Celia did not mention her discovery, but 
it Weighed on her heart. Sometimes she 
averted her head in passing the portrait 
of the man with the wild black hair, and 
then she became the more acutely aware 
of his presence. Again, she would nerve 
herself to confront and defy him. 

“ You were a murderer,” she would whis- 
per, fixing her eyes on those of the por- 
trait. “You must be suffering the tor- 
ments of purgatory now — wicked, cruel 
man !” 

The same morning Count Guigione stood 
before the Contessina Olga, who, still blink- 
ing sleepily, was huddled in a soiled wrap- 
per — the deshabille permitted an Italian 
lady at home. 

“ My dear child, you have promised to 
implicitly obey me,” he said. 

“ Yes,” she assented. 

“This evening your mother and your- 
self will drive with me to the Colli after 
sunset. Very good !” 

Olga laughed. 

“ The carriage was given up last year,” 
she objected. 

Count Guigione tapped her arm impres- 
sively with the eye-glass he held between 
his fingers. 

“I will bring a carriage. Look your 
best, carina. We may meet a stranger on 
the piazza ; and if we do, smile on him as 
if there was not another man in the world. 
Look your best, my child.” 

“ Is he a foreigner ?” demanded the girl, 
quickly. 

Her sleepy eyes sparkled, the rich color 
pulsed into her cheek. 

Count Guigione placed his finger on his 
lip, and went away, without heeding the 
questions which followed him. 

At the appointed hour the countess and 
her eldest daughter were ready for the drive, 
the former beaming with soft gratitude, 
the latter triumphant and vigilant Count 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

Guigione scanned Olga’s toilet critically, 
and nodded his head approvingly. 

She wore a dress of cream color, admira- 
bly suited to the hour of summer twilight, 
and she had fastened a knot of scarlet ge- 
raniums on the breast. Animation render- 
ed her face brilliant. 

They ascended the slope, where the fresh 
air from the hills becomes refreshingly per- 
ceptible after the heated day in the town 
at this season. A low phaeton, drawn by 
ponies, passed them. The phaeton held 
the Prince and Princess del Giglio. Salu- 
tations were exchanged, and the phaeton 
whirled on at a rapid pace. 

Count Guigione bit his lip, and followed 
the equipage with his eyes. Olga gloomed 
suddenly. The party reached the piazza 
in silence. The phaeton was circling about 
the statue of David. Among the carriages 
gathered here, Count Guigione distinguish- 
ed a street fiacre, from which a stout gen- 
tleman was in the act of descending, near 
the parapet. The count skipped down, 
and hastened to greet this stranger with 
effusion. After a few moments of con- 
versation the two gentlemen approached 
the carriage, where Olga was observing 
them attentively. The count presented his 
friend, the Baron Blek, to the ladies. 

“ I have urged the baron to visit the 
Piazza of Michael Angelo after sunset, and 
see our favorite evening resort for the sea- 
son of year,” said the count. “ Have I not 
advised wisely, dear ladies ?” 

The Countess Yallambroni murmured 
some suitable reply; then the ladies also 
quitted the carriage. Olga paused beside 
Baron Blek, and looked at him softly be- 
neath her long eyelashes. 

Sunset still tinged the sky, and made the 
gray clouds on the horizon luminous ; the 
hour and atmosphere imparted a dreamy 
repose to the city outspread below. The 
phaeton had paused a short distance away, 
and was immediately surrounded by a 
group of young men, friends of the prince. 
The young men had arrived in those ec- 
centric equipages on two wheels, supposed 
to appertain to fashionable bachelorhood 
on the Continent, and grooms held the 
horses’ heads while their masters chatted 
with the ladies. 

Celia recognized the Contessina Olga in 
the distance. Why had she never brought 
her young neighbor to this height for the 
refreshing evening drive ? Her compunc- 
tion of conscience frequently assumed this 


128 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

form of remorse. She remembered people, 
toward whom her impulses were amiable, 
when she saw them. She resolved to in- 
vite Olga out frequently, as she w T as now a 
chaperon, a married lady. Then the circle 
of young men closed around her little car- 
riage, where she sat as if enthroned ; and 
Celia, accustomed to those daily meetings 
inevitable in such small circles, had a gay 
word for each. 

The prince strolled toward the other 
group. Count Guigione frowned on his 
advance, but he surveyed the stout stran- 
ger with indolent curiosity. He placed 
himself on the other side of Olga, and 
whispered in her ear, 

“ Where did you discover such a grace- 
ful cavalier, contessina mia ?” 

The girl vibrated from head to foot, ei- 
ther with anger or emotion, but she made 
no reply, and the extended arm with which 
she was indicating a mountain to the bar- 
on did not tremble. She turned her back 
on the prince, who recoiled as if piqued. 

Count Guigione gnaw T ed his mustache. 
He took the prince by the arm, and for- 
mally presented him to the baron. Both 
bowed ; the baron scarcely glanced at 
the prince, while the latter continued to 
observe him with a teasing, boyish mal- 
ice. 

At that moment, in the tranquil summer 
evening, destiny must have passed over the 
heads of this group with a drawn sword. 
None of them felt the touch of the steel, un- 
less it was Count Guigione. 

“Your wife is beckoning to you, caro 
mio ,” he said at length. 

The prince raised his hat and strolled 
away again, stifling a laugh. He enjoyed 
the annoyance of Count Guigione, and he 
could not resist teasing Olga. Who was 
this stranger ? As he approached the 
phaeton he paused, and the expression of 
his face changed. The group of young 
men still surrounded Celia, but an officer 
had gained the place beside the wheel, and 
she was listening to his words attentively, 
leaning slightly toward him. The officer 
was one of the military attaches of the 
king’s household; a Piedmontese, large, 
blonde, dignified, whose presence dwarfed 
the youth about him, by his stature as 
much as by the richness of his uniform — 
black, embroidered with gold. 

The features of the prince lost their boy- 
ish mockery, grew dull, sharpened percep- 
tibly; his eyes flashed with sudden anger, 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

as quickly subdued. He joined the group 
quietly. 

The Contessina Olga had not turned her 
head when he left her side. Her large, 
eloquent eyes were raised to the face of 
the baron, and her white teeth gleamed in 
a brilliant smile. She was obeying the 
count to the letter. 

Soon the party crossed the piazza to the 
little cafe, where a band played, and took 
ices at a table on the terrace. As usual, 
Count Guigione assumed the responsibility 
of making the occasion agreeable to all, 
and the baron sustained his efforts by the 
easy grace of a man of the world. Olga 
was demure, almost timid, in bearing. She 
listened respectfully to the conversation of 
her mother and the count, only allowing 
herself to laugh freely at any witticism of 
the baron’s, delivered in a slow and gut- 
tural tone. 

The piazza was deserted when they 
again left the cafe; the phaeton of the 
American princess had disappeared, with 
all its attendant cavaliers. Stars sparkled 
in the sky ; the bronze David had become 
a shadow of the night. Olga crossed to 
the parapet once more, and directed the 
baron’s attention to the city, now illumi- 
nated with many lights. Count Guigione 
followed slowly with the countess. 

“ Is it not beautiful, our city ?” exclaim- 
ed Olga. 

“ Yes,” replied her companion. 

“ Doubtless monsieur the baron has vis- 
ited so many capitals he finds it difficult to 
prefer one,” continued the young lady, with 
a little shrug of the shoulders, as if vexed 
at his lack of enthusiasm. 

She moved nearer to him as she spoke ; 
he inhaled the fragrance of the knot of 
flowers on her breast. The stranger ap- 
peared neither repulsive nor ugly to her at 
the moment. She realized that he repre- 
sented her sole means of escape from her 
present life. In her welcome of his advent, 
passionately longed for, even prayed for, 
she could scarcely restrain herself from ex- 
tending her hands to him. 

“ It is a most beautiful city,” said the 
baron, in his thick, guttural voice. “I so 
much prefer it to all others that I meditate 
making it my future home.” 

“ Welcome, monsieur the baron. We will 
strew your path with flowers,” said Olga, 
gayly. 

Count Guigione promised to meet the 
baron at Doney’s cafe at eleven o’clock, and 


129 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

went home with the ladies. The drive 
down the hill w T as quiet. Olga leaned 
back among the cushions, silent and pre- 
occupied. 

“ Oh, if he would give me a phaeton like 
that of the American, he might beat me, 
lock me up, starve me at home, and I would 
not complain !” she mused. 

Later, Count Guigione met his new friend, 
as agreed, and together they partook of a 
dainty little supper. The baron’s supper, 
in quality and quantity, was an important 
item of his mature years. He tucked his 
napkin under his chin comfortably, and 
ate, while the count pecked stray morsels 
from his own plate in the intervals of 
talking. 

Baron Blek was a heavily-built man of 
forty -five, of German or French origin. 
His complexion was bronzed, a patch of 
red colored each cheek, his hair and mus- 
tache were of a metallic black, while a large 
ear projected on either side of a bullet- 
shaped head. The baron’s boots creaked 
when he moved ; there was a bloom of the 
new article about his raiment; his watch- 
chain was more brilliant and conspicuous 
than are the chatelaines of ordinary mor- 
tals, as if an innate love of jewellery on the 
part of the owner, repressed in strict ac- 
cordance with the law of good taste, found 
expression here. He had lived many years 
at Algiers, where he had amassed a large 
fortune. Count Guigione met him at the 
club. 

The baron liked to converse in his slow 
manner, which many persons less alert 
than Count Guigione might have found 
dull. The latter was an excellent listener. 
Count Guigione enjoyed mingling with 
mankind, and his encounter with this stran- 
ger would have been agreeable under any 
circumstances. Now he had an ulterior 
motive. Baron Blek seemed to him the 
husband for Olga, that providential arrival 
whom he had vainly sought hitherto, and 
whom he had anticipated in the guise of a 
rich Englishman. He had advised that 
the English language should be added to 
the other accomplishments of the contes- 
sina with this end in view. Here was a 
baron instead, stout, middle - aged, a trifle 
heavy perhaps, with his napkin tucked un- 
der his chin, partaking placidly of lobster 
salad. 

Count Guigione could scarcely credit this 
good-fortune. He dreaded the mention of 
an Algerian or French wife, who would 
9 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

arrive to take her place at the head of the 
Florence establishment should the baron 
purchase property here. Soon his worst 
fears were happily set at rest. The baron 
had confessed to being a bachelor, with a 
simplicity and directness which announced 
that the circumstance was much in his own 
thoughts. 

When the supper was finished, the two 
gentlemen lighted their cigars and emerged 
into the street, if not exhilarated in spirit 
at least in that mellow and amicable mood 
imparted to the masculine nature by several 
bottles of good wine. Midnight was so 
beautiful at the season of year that Count 
Guigione, although not a star-gazer, insist- 
ed on escorting his new acquaintance to 
his hotel. 

“ A fine girl, the young lady with you 
on the Colli this evening,” said the baron, 
making the first allusion to the drive. 

“You mean the Contessina Olga Vallam- 
broni ? Ah, yes. You must have also no- 
ticed the beautiful jn’incess, mon ami. She 
is an American.” 

“Doubtless she is affianced,” pursued 
the baron. 

“ The princess is already married. That 
young man who joined us is her husband,” 
said the count. 

“I am not speaking of her,” said the 
baron, after a pause. “ If I understand you, 
the Contessina Olga is unmarried.” 

Count Guigione sighed deeply, removed 
the cigar from his lips, and blew a cloud of 
smoke into the air. 

“ Yes, poor girl ! She is unmarried, and, 

I fear, will remain so,” he said, in a pensive 
tone. 

Baron Blek turned and looked at him. 

“ Surely you are mistaken. So charm- 
ing and attractive — ” 

“Pardon me,” interposed Count Gui- 
gione, with a touch of hauteur in his voice. 

“ I am a relative. I have known her from 
infancy. I speak too frankly in my own 
anxiety for her happiness. She has offers 
of marriage which would turn the brain of 
another girl. My friend, she refuses all 1” 

It was the baron’s turn to remove his 
cigar, and emit little spiral rings of smoke 
from his lips. 

“ Possibly she loves some person whom * 
she cannot marry,” he suggested, quietly. 

“ Not at all,” said Count Guigione, im- 
pressively. “Do I not know every page 
of this child’s life ? It is her pride. The 
fortunes of her family have changed with 


130 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


the lapse of centuries ; she shuts herself 
up in the palace and mopes. There is no 
help for it. She must have her own way. 
The Yallambroni have been illustrious in 
the history of our commonwealth, but I 
lose patience with these young people who 
perpetuate the follies of their elders. Well, 
well, my dear baron, let us talk of other 
matters. Why should I weary you with 
the interests of my ow'n heart?” 

The baron was not wearied; on the 
contrary, he was interested. The picture 
thus vividly presented to his mind of a 
girl moping in an old palace, because the 
lustre of her family was tarnished, charmed 
his imagination much more than the living 
Olga, slender, supple, starry-eyed, leaning 
against the parapet of the piazza in the 
fragrant summer night. He was a parvenu. 
Rank, an old palace, a great connection in 
the upper circle of the town, presented the 
alluring attractions anticipated by his com- 
panion, the wily match-maker. He said no 
more on the subject, and the footsteps of 
the two gentlemen echoed on the deserted 
Arno bank. 

“Confess that you intend to remain 
among us, cher ami ,” said Count Guigione, 
resuming his usual light tone, and with the 
cordiality which never seems forced and 
hollow in the Italian. “ Ah, were I a cap- 
italist, I should be tempted to invest in 
the new quarters of our city, which are to 
render it a little Paris. You know more 
concerning such matters than I ; look into 
the affair, and judge if I am wrong.” 

The baron did not resent the suggestion. 
The hour, the vivacity of the count, the 
soothing effect of the little supper, the good 
wine, and his cigar may have rendered 
him expansive. 

“ It is true that I intend to choose a resi- 
dence in some European capital,” he said, 
after reflection. “I wish to marry and 
found a family. Have you here a matri- 
monial bureau ? I confess to being some- 
what fastidious in the choice of a bride.” 

The count laughed merrily. 

“The bureau of marriage will be unnec- 
essary, my friend. I will present you to 
our ladies. You shall see them all, and 
make your choice of blonde or brunette.” 

The baron also laughed, a fat, chuckling 
laugh. Both spoke in a vein of badinage 
which veiled a graver meaning. At the door 
of the hotel they shook; hands and separated. 

Count Guigione, half an hour later, skip- 
ped up the long flights of stone steps lead- 


I ing to his lonely chamber with a rapidity 
of movement which evinced buoyancy of 
spirit, and w T ould have endangered the cir- 
culation of a more corpulent man of his 
age. He had lighted a wax-taper, kept in 
his pocket for the purpose, and guided 
himself through the dark halls to his own 
door. The nun, and the cavalier without 
a nose, in the pictures on the wall, seemed 
to welcome him home. Placing a lamp on 
the table, he wrote two letters before he 
slept. The first was addressed to a muni- 
cipal authority, a friend, and of a confiden- 
tial nature. The- substance of this epistle 
was a statement that the Baron Blek in- 
tended to purchase property in the new 
quarters of the city, and that lie, the writer, 
should refer him to the correspondent as 
the best authority. The second note was 
more briefly and carelessly written. It 
w r as to the Contessina Olga, and ran thus : 

“My dear Child, — I know that I can 
rely on you. If I request permission to 
show the Yallambroni Library to Baron 
Blek some day, be present, as if by acci- 
dent. You have made a conquest. Per- 
haps it would be desirable for your mother 
to urge our remaining to breakfast.” 

That same evening a ripple had occurred 
on the hitherto tranquil surface of wedded 
happiness for the Prince and Princess del 
Giglio. 

In the piazza the Piedmontese officer, in 
his superb uniform of black and gold, had 
stood beside the phaeton talking with Ce- 
lia. The prince appeared slender, narrow 
across the chest, and effeminate beside him. 
Celia, with quick, feminine perception, had 
observed this contrast in surprise, and per- 
haps disappointment. The civilian, even 
though a noble, was eclipsed by the soldier, 
with his gold embroideries, clanking sabre, 
and spurs. Celia experienced shame at 
the guilty treachery of her thought. She 
had not supposed a man could ever appear 
equally handsome and noble to her as her 
husband. She would not wound Andrea 
by the doubt of her allegiance because she 
was conscious of profound admiration for 
the officer. 

The prince took his seat beside her, the 
gentlemen drew back, and the carriage 
moved on. 

The mood of the wife was gay ; that of 
the husband sullen. He had been dis- 
turbed to the verge of exasperation. The 


131 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

officer had kindled his ire and suspicions ; 
and yet these doubts had been planted in 
his mind by another — no less a person than 
his mother. The latter had questioned the 
wisdom of Mrs. Bayard as a guardian, and 
disapproved of Celia. The whim of oc- 
cupying the historical rooms had strength- 
ened her distrust, and even given it a tan- 
gible form. Celia was now a Giglio; as 
bride and young wife, she must observe 
more than the convenance of society. Pos- 
sibly ignorance or vanity might lead her 
astray. She was sufficiently pretty to at- 
tract admirers. 

The historical rooms, with their draped 
walls, dark nooks, and wicked little doors, 
had witnessed many a romance. Possibly 
Celia’s sentimentality would take some dan- 
gerous phase in this atmosphere of mystery. 
Who knew that some artful friend of her 
son’s had not suggested the caprice to the 
young princess, with the ultimate end in 
view of wooing her ear with subtle flat- 
teries, in chambers hung with cloth- of - 
gold ? 

The old princess had interviews with the 
bridegroom which left him moody and irri- 
table. She communicated her fears in time- 
ly warnings, and with a frankness of speech 
of which the Anglo-Saxon mother could 
boast no parallel, in maternal injunctions to 
her boy, even if trembling for his happiness. 
The old princess designated a spade as a 
spade with a direct, if astounding, simplic- 
ity; the prince listened unappalled. The 
importance of her words was always that 
he must watch Celia, direct her movements, 
restrain her smiles — if necessary, teach her 
the requisite dignity of her new position. 

The prince was piqued. He had been 
the god of Celia’s spring-time — her first 
lover. This was the melody rung on every 
chord of the harp for him by her touch. 
He believed it, and was satisfied. He re- 
spected his mother’s wisdom, but the awa- 
kening was rude. Nevertheless it was an 
awakening. To believe evil more readily 
than good was ingrained in his nature. 
The honey-moon had been one of raptur- 
ous happiness to the Prince del Giglio. 
His bride was beautiful, amiable, and had 
brought him a larger dowry than many a 
plain one might have done. He was aware 
that the plain heiress would have been 
forced on his acceptance, under some cir- 
cumstances. In the joy of deliverance from 
such a fate he had taken the golden-haired 
Celia to his breast, showering upon her that 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

wealth of affection which sometimes threat- 
ens extinction from the very fervor of a 
first flame. 

Now his mother bade him watch his wife. 
He did not repose confidence in the love 
of Celia ; others, only too much resembling 
himself, would undermine, sap, destroy her 
affection for him in time. He believed far 
more in the craft and power of intriguing 
cavaliers than in any innate purity of Ce- 
lia’s which would resist their insidious 
advances. He was still too much in love 
with his bride, and too young, perhaps, to 
have developed a creed of the Latin man 
that marriage is an affair of so much mon- 
ey and ceremony, usually arranged by the 
mother and the priest, and that all wives 
behave alike. Neither was he prepared to 
confess that women differ only in the color 
of the hair, height, and amount of flesh. 
What he did accept as inevitable was that 
they were deceitful, and at the same time 
easily duped. The prince had languished 
at the feet of some divinity since the age 
of nineteen. Love-making was the chief 
pastime of the youth to which he belong- 
ed. Doubtless the old princess had acted 
wisely in warning him to exercise a super- 
vision over his wife. The Giglio code of 
honor was very upright. In the marriage 
contract, not many generations back, it 
was distinctly stipulated that the husband 
should personally select the cavalier sei'- 
vente of his wife. 

These thoughts passed through the mind 
of the prince on the homeward drive. Ce- 
lia’s gayety rendered him more silent. 

“You do not speak of the officer,” he 
said at length, and looking at her suspi- 
ciously. 

Celia averted her eyes and colored slightly. 

“The officer? Ah, yes!” she rejoined, 
carelessly. “ I should like to see you wear- 
ing that uniform, Andrea. How would it 
please you to be a soldier ?” 

The prince bent nearer to her in the 
darkness; his eyes sparkled. His moth- 
er’s warnings were coming home to him in 
a fashion he had not anticipated. 

“When a lady so manifestly admires a 
man, he must remain in her thoughts,” he 
added, with a sneer. 

He was very angry with Celia for blush- 
in g and averting her face when he men- 
tioned the Piedmontese. What did it mean ? 

“ Something has occurred to disturb you,” 
she said, growing pale, and observing him 
with a pained look. 


132 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

“ Nothing,” said the prince, in a dry tone. 
Then he added, “ Grand Dieu! when I 
think of a man’s ever being fool enough to 
trust a woman !” 

“If you mean that remark for me, I am 
trustworthy,” said Celia, tremulously, and 
drawing back. 

Tears filled her eyes; all the sweetness 
and brightness of the evening had vanish- 
ed in the changing mood of her husband. 
How cruel and unreasonable he was ! 
What had happened to displease him? 
She would not inquire further; pride seal- 
ed her lips. 

For some time the trot of the ponies’ lit- 
tle hoofs sounded on the white road. The 
young coachman, in his cream-colored liv- 
ery, sat stiffly erect on his box. By what 
instinct was he aware — as if the perception 
filtered through the back of his head — that 
the prince and his wife had quarrelled ? 
He was prepared to detail this circum- 
stance, when he reached home, to an audi- 
ence in the stable-door; and even the old 
porter in the yellow waistcoat would lis- 
ten with interest. 

Suddenly the prince, finding the silence 
unendurable, turned again to Celia. 

“ You already love this man 1” he whis- 
pered, fiercely. 

Surprise made Celia forget her attitude 
of dignified forbearance. 

“ Who ?” she demanded, breathlessly. 

Then a perception of the truth dawned 
on her; a sense of lightness returned to 
her heart. 

“You are jealous!” she said, and began 
to laugh. 

The prince softened. He took her hand. 

“ Perhaps it is jealousy,” he murmured. 
“You belong to me.” 

Celia gained a height of superiority. A 
jealous man is .tiresome and wholly unrea- 
sonable, this young philosopher reflected ; 
still, it is something to possess the power 
of rendering him unhappy. She exerted 
herself to lure him back to good-humor 
with every grace of soothing words, and 
succeeded so well that the cloud had van- 
ished from his face by the time the city 
gate was reached. 

The streets were lighted ; the tables out- 
side the cafes were crowded. Celia fancied 
she saw the gleam of a gold-embroidered 
uniform at one of these tables, which she 
recognized. She glanced at her husband 
with that delicate mockery — a trifle pity- 
ing, a trifle contemptuous — which is insep- 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

arable to disillusionment in the feminine 
breast. 

“Poor Andrea! How much he must 
love me if he cannot endure the presence 
of a handsome officer near my carriage I” 
she reflected, with restored equanimity. 
She believed herself the stronger of the 
two. 

The Vallambroni palace gave no out- 
ward sign of the new elements of excite- 
ment within. The exterior was decorated 
with frescoes, somewhat protected from 
the rain by a projecting roof; Graces at the 
corners held garlands to dilapidated Cu- 
pids across the piano nobile, while the spaces 
between the windows of the mezzanino 
framed little pictures of other palaces. The 
great gate remained closed, as usual. 

It is true that Count Guigione and the 
baron entered this gate one noon, and re- 
mained in the mansion for several hours, 
with such satisfactory results that, two 
months later, the Contessina Olga consent- 
ed to be married to the stout baron. 

In this second wedding Count Guigione 
was also an active participant. 

Celia, absorbed in her own thoughts, to 
the entire exclusion of her neighbors, ap- 
proached her husband the next evening 
with an arch smile. 

“ I shall not drive out to-night,” she said, 
demurely. “I will enjoy the garden in- 
stead.” 

The prince raised his eyebrows, and made 
no reply. 

Celia turned away, pouting. She made 
the concession to please him ; to assure 
him that his society alone was sufficient 
for her happiness. After sunset she threw 
a light drapery of blue silk over her head 
and shoulders, and strolled forth across the 
court. Mrs. Bayard had driven out alone. 

The Giglio garden, without being spa- 
cious, possessed the charm of such nooks. 
The trees were lofty, and their foliage 
swept the boundary-wall; sheltered paths 
wound amidst the shrubbery; flowers 
bloomed in the great stone urns of the 
terraces ; weather-stained statues were con- 
cealed by a tangled growth of vines. 

Celia heard a footstep behind her. She 
smiled, and paused to pluck a rose. 

“ You remain at home this fine evening ?” 
inquired a harsh voice. 

The old princess stood beside her. Celia 
started, and pricked her finger on a rose 
thorn. She thought her husband would 
have joined her earlier. She was disap- 


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A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

pointed. The black eyes of her mother-in- 
law studied her fair face. 

“ Yes, we remain at home to-night,” re- 
plied Celia, in a troubled voice. 

“Ah! then Andrea is also at home? I 
will pay you both a visit.” 

The princess returned to the house with 
Celia. The prince was not in the histori- 
cal rooms. His wife searched for him in 
vain. The old princess waited in silence. 

“ I thought he was here,” explained the 
young wife, with increasing confusion. 

“Ah, you thought so!” said her mother- 
in-law. 

Celia winced ; the words and tone sound- 
ed, to her sensitive ear, slightly ironical. 
She summoned a servant. The prince had 
gone out an hour before, and walked. 
Celia bit her lip, and entertained the old 
princess as best she could, with her 
thoughts astray and a quickly - beating 
heart. Afterward the old princess with- 
drew, and Mrs. Bayard returned. Celia 
told her mother all, with her head on her 
shoulder, and angry sobs checking her ut- 
terance. She had remained at home to 
humor the jealousy of her husband ; and in- 
stead of joining her in the garden, as she 
anticipated, he had gone out without a 
word of explanation. 

Mrs. Bayard consoled her daughter, and 
sent her to bed. But Celia deceived her 
mother by remaining awake and vigilant. 
She roamed about the lofty, dark rooms 
for hours, and finally seated herself in a 
great arm-chair beside the window of the 
salon of the portraits. Less self-absorbed, 
she would have been afraid of solitude at 
such an hour. She was excited, profound- 
ly indignant, restless, and miserable. Noth- 
ing less than an explanation with her hus- 
band would relieve her heart. She re- 
hearsed the words with which she would 
greet his tardy return, until her brain was 
weary with the formula. 

At three o’clock in the morning the 
prince appeared. He had played cards at 
the club, and lost money. He was still 
animated by the excitement of his even- 
ing. 

A slender form rose from the depths of 
an arm-chair and confronted him. Celia’s 
lips were dry; the formula of reproach 
died away in her throat. She remained 
mute, gazing at him with heavy eyes. The 
prince was surprised ; but he was not in- 
sensible to the flattery of this waiting for 
him. It was something new in his ex- 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

perience — a lonely woman suffering, and 
watching for his errant footstep. 

“ Silly child ! you should be asleep,” he 
said, chidingly, and taking her by the chin 
to bestow a kiss. 

Celia could not respond with a word 
about the garden, her disappointment, the 
weary evening in the dark house. She 
wrenched away her face, and turned toward 
the door. 

“ I do not believe the officer treats his 
wife so badly !” she exclaimed, with a sob. 

The prince laughed. 

The next evening the pair drove out, as 
usual. The following day they departed 
for a summer tour to Venice. 


CHAPTER III. 

ALBERT DENNIS PROVES A RIVAL. 

Albert Dennis had lingered in the stu- 
dio of the old sculptor after the expiration 
of his year of probation. He evinced no 
intention of abandoning the study of art, 
however severe the discouragements of 
Abraham Blackwood. He pursued the 
chosen vocation, stimulated by letters from 
home, breathing the proud anticipations 
of his parents and friends. It was even 
promised to him that some sublime statue, 
symbolical of nationality, would be pur- 
chased by his native State, and adorn the 
seat of government. 

No native State claimed as its gifted 
son John Winter, toiling in an unobtrusive 
corner of Abraham Blackwood’s studio. 

Albert Dennis began to attract atten- 
tion. He affected eccentricity in speech 
and mode of life. He went out much, 
made acquaintances, was graceful in de- 
portment in a drawing-room, and ingeni- 
ously flattered the self-love of those he de- 
sired to please. People said that he was 
a young man who would make a mark in 
the world. It became clear to the mind 
of Albert Dennis himself that he must 
achieve something, if only to fulfil the 
promise of these golden opinions. In the 
studio, alone, he was rated at his true 
value. 

Albert Dennis resembled only too .close- 
ly the artist described by Lord Macaulay : 
“He had all the peculiarities which are 
supposed by fools to belong to intellectual 
superiority — eccentricity, jealousy, caprice, 
infinite disdain for other men ; and yet he 


134 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

was as poor, commonplace a creature as 
any in the world.” 

He worked on a model one week with 
feverish energy, and idled away the next, 
complaining that his nerves and spirit re- 
quired rest. The exhortations of the old 
sculptor bored him, and the steady appli- 
cation of John Winter irritated him, be- 
cause of his own lack of perseverance and 
fortitude. He was often inspired by a mis- 
chievous desire to thwart and interrupt the 
work which absorbed his silent compan- 
ion. He tried to lure John out on holi- 
days, which should delay the accomplish- 
ment of a task ; he endeavored to entrap 
him into the night amusements which 
should render his hand unsteady and his 
brain clouded the next morning. He sel- 
dom succeeded. John Winter resisted such 
seductions, not so much from a superior 
rectitude as because the moulding of clay 
and the unfolding of novel designs offered 
greater fascination. Duty was not mere 
slavish labor to him. 

Albert Dennis fretted in association with 
this calmer temperament, which he could 
not reach in any vulnerable point and turn 
aside. John Winter was attracting very 
little notice at this time in comparison 
with himself. The circumstance flattered 
his vanity, while he could not forgive the 
advantage gained by his rival in having 
made the portrait bust of the Princess del 
Giglio. He sometimes regarded the Iris, 
still occupying the safe shelter of the inner 
room, with a smirking satisfaction. Iris 
seemed to droop, with her folded wings, 
and bear the impress of failure and disap- 
pointment. Albert Dennis had come to 
Florence to study the Works of the sons 
of this commonwealth, so rich in genius, 
but not to imitate their industry. He was 
willing to copy their designs if he could, 
however. These men, whose work still 
permeates marble, bronze, and precious 
metals, patiently wrought as apprentices 
of goldsmiths, gaining that mastery in skil- 
ful manipulation which imparted perfec- 
tion to their later labors. The impatient 
nineteenth-century genius of Albert Dennis 
spurned such drudgery. Benvenuto Cel- 
lini, imprisoned in the dark cell of the 
Castle of St. Angelo, beheld the dazzling 
vision of a golden sphere containing the 
Madonna and Child, and treasured it for 
future delineation. Albert Dennis dreamed 
of the money-bag which would enable 
him to drive a dog-cart, with a page in 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

top - boots and buttons seated behind 
him. 

Abraham Blackwood observed the in- 
creasing caprices of Albert Dennis with 
severe disapproval. One day he growled, 

“When will you have done with this 
fool’s-play ?” 

“ Do you mean my life-w T ork ?” demand- 
ed Albert Dennis, in an injured tone, toss- 
ing back his long hair. 

The old sculptor looked at him wdthout 
reply. 

“You have never judged me fairly be- 
cause of your partiality for John Winter. 
That blinds you to everything !” pursued 
the youth, in his chirping tones. 

Abraham Blackwood began to smooth 
his long beard. 

“ I have treated you justly,” he replied. 

“Well, it does not matter now,” said 
Albert, laying aside his pencil. “ The die 
is cast ! I have already taken a studio.” 

“How do you expect to get on?” de- 
manded the master, in a deeper voice. 
“ Reflect, my lad, before taking that step.” 

The eye of Albert Dennis shifted uneas- 
ily ; the color deepened in his cheek. He 
shook off the hand laid on his shoulder 
impatiently. 

“I do not know what you mean? The 
studio is rented, and I am going to take 
possession.” 

Accordingly he went, with a somewhat 
cool farewell both to the old sculptor and 
John Winter. Two weeks later the fore- 
man, Angelo, asked permission to seek work 
where he had been offered higher w r ages. 
The defection of Angelo was a blow to his 
former master — a blow the most difficult to 
bear — that of ingratitude. Angelo, a man 
of experience and talent, was installed in 
the studio of Albert Dennis. The latter 
never visited his former associates. He 
had decided to declare himself a rival, an 
antagonist, driven forth by the jealousy of 
J olin Winter and the invectives of Abra- 
ham Blackwood, both of whom were united 
in a mutual animosity and desire to crush 
him. The wildest tales flew about the 
town. Albert Dennis added the lustre of 
martyrdom to his acknowledged genius. 
Neither Abraham Blackwood nor John Win- 
ter uttered a word of self-defence ; indeed, 
they heard little of the gossip of which 
they were the subject. They gained no 
credit in the breach with Albert Dennis ; 
the unpopularity of the old sculptor was 
against him, and reflected on John Winter 


135 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

as his favorite disciple. Art critics, some- 
what brusquely assured by him from time 
to time that they did not know the prop- 
er use of the weapons they attempted to 
wield, found it a suitable occasion to re- 
view the errors of his system and style in 
print. John Winter was slain by utter si- 
lence. 

Albert Dennis was being forced into a 
dangerous position by success. Born with 
a lively imagination, he lost his head in 
the inventions which he confided to gossip- 
mongers, and especially with reference to 
the rival camp, as he persisted in terming 
the school he had quitted. Soon his stu- 
dio was adorned with pretty and graceful 
compositions, which evinced increased in- 
dustry and application on the part of the 
youthful genius, as well as some ability. 
Originality was not apparent in the busts 
of dimpled girls saluting the butterflies 
which alighted on their shoulders, or little 
children learning a first prayer, with fold- 
ed hands. The public was pleased with 
the promise of these studies. Albert Den- 
nis found his circle of admirers chiefly fem- 
inine; carriages paused before his door; the 
ladies warmly espoused his cause, interest- 
ed as well by the modesty, and pleased 
with the deference, of the young man. He 
began to dream of engaging the notice of 
Mrs. Bayard. What a triumph it would be 
to replace the forsaken Iris by one of his 
own maidens, holding a flower ! He never 
invited the old sculptor to visit him. It 
was best to maintain the ground of open 
hostility. Had either of his former com- 
panions inspected his collection of busts, it 
might have proved awkward to sustain the 
ground that most of them were productions 
of some years of study in the studio of 
Abraham Blackwood. Neither the latter 
nor John Winter had ever seen the collec- 
tion. Both awaited the formal invitation 
to inspect the new quarters, which never 
came. The old sculptor was irritated, per- 
haps wounded in his self-love, by the slight. 
John Winter was puzzled. He had never 
quarrelled with his late comrade ; indeed, 
the lighter, more frivolous nature had fre- 
quently tyrannized over the stronger. 

“I suppose we can live without him,” 
grumbled the former. “ He will swim on 
the surface for awhile.” 

“ Perhaps I should go to see him with- 
out an invitation. He may feel some pride 
in the matter,” said John. 

“ Humph ! He is much more likely to 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

accuse you of curiosity in prying into his 
affairs,” retorted the older man, sharply. 
“ Wait awhile.” 

They waited, and the breach widened. 
Abraham Blackwood became more cynical 
in mood and bitter in speech. When Angelo 
descried him in the street, he glided out of 
sight until his former employer had passed. 

The summer was full of occupation for 
John Winter. Already the Iris had been 
succeeded in his brain by a crowd of im- 
ages, which rendered him perplexed and 
helpless. The ideal snow- woman of the 
brook escaped his grasp like a ray of light. 
Finally, he decided to give scope to his 
reveries by an emblematic figure which 
should embody freedom, nationality, liber- 
ty. What young American sculptor ever 
failed to yield, at least once, to this patriot- 
ic impulse ? John determined to blend the 
haunting face of Celia Bayard, which reap- 
peared in all his studies, with the vision 
of the snow-woman in an “America !” The 
preoccupation of this project blunted much 
of personal interest in the sudden depart- 
ure of Albert Dennis and Angelo from the 
studio. Rapture filled his soul. He gazed 
dreamily after these departing companions, 
almost without perceiving tlieir absence. 
He already trod on cloud-land. He kept 
the secret of his meditations even from the 
master, as yet. His design was scarcely 
more than a series of drawings, but his own 
vision pierced the clay. He beheld the 
moulded limbs, the courageous attitude, 
the delicate beauty of feature, of this divin- 
ity, embodiment of a glorious future. His 
own brain became fired with enthusiasm. 
Ambition and glowing hope placed his 
“America ” on a height, like the “ Minerva,” 
in ivory and gold, of Phidias, for the wor- 
ship of her people. He still worked on the 
portrait busts, and indulged in meditation. 
When the work ordered by the old gentle- 
man in a brown wig was finished, he prom- 
ised himself complete absorption in the 
ideal “America.” 

At this time he was abruptly recalled to 
more prosaic duties. The old sculptor was 
attempting a colored statue in jealously- 
guarded secrecy. It devolved on John to 
protect his seclusion, and render skilful as- 
sistance in the absence of the intelligent 
Angelo. 

The colored statue was a failure. When 
finished, Abraham Blackwood fairly gnash- 
ed his teeth in contemplating it. He de- 
sired to bury it deep in the ground. 


136 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE ; 

“A hideous, pink thing!” he groaned. 
“Help me to inter it behind the studio. 
Perhaps some future excavator may discov- 
er and take it up as a relic of Greek art.” 

Profound dejection succeeded this dis- 
appointment. The old sculptor sat all day 
plunged in thought, morosely silent for 
hours, then launching into words of with- 
ering contempt for all mankind, includ- 
ing himself. 

John Winter’s position was not an easy 
one. He strove to cheer the old man, who 
cast a shadow over his own spirit. He 
was young, hopeful, and still grateful for 
his change of place in life from Herring- 
ville to Florence. For the first time the 
young man became conscious of a void in 
his own nature, which Abraham Blackwood 
failed to satisfy. He returned to his work ; 
but the silent companion in the adjoining 
room, seated, with the head resting on one 
hand and the eyes fixed on vacancy, trou- 
bled, unnerved him. He decided to arouse 
the master by a fresh interest, and confide 
to him the plan of his “America.” The old 
sculptor listened attentively, then studied 
the designs, as he had looked at the sketch- 
es of the cabin-boy on board the Swallow 
so long ago. 

The cabin-boy still flushed and trembled 
in the ordeal awaiting approbation or cen- 
sure. Animation awoke in Abraham Black- 
wood’s hitherto apathetic features ; he com- 
pressed his thin lips. Did he recognize a 
talent beyond his own ? 

“You are growing, John ; some day you 
will be a man. I confess I did not believe 
it at first. I do believe in you now.” 

Then he rose and brandished his arm 
with such a wild gesture that his pupil 
feared his brain had turned. 

“Work while it is day!” cried the old 
sculptor, in a voice of acute suffering. “ The 
night will come soon enough, and the dark- 
ness in which I have always lived.” 

John Winter ran to his work, and began 
to mould his clay. A summer shower was 
falling in torrents, and the rain penetrated 
the window behind him. He turned to 
close it, and discovered, to his surprise, that 
the hasp of the wooden shutter was broken. 
This was the window by which Albert Den- 
nis had entered to peep at Celia Bayard. A 
workman explained that the shutter had 
been in this condition for months. John 
had not observed it, owing to the ■warm 
weather and the carelessness of the master 
in securing his premises. The following 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

morning the latter appeared in the outer 
room with a smiling expression of coun- 
tenance. 

“ It seems that our Praxiteles has mod- 
elled a life-size statue in clay, which he ex- 
hibits to-day,” he said. 

“You mean Albert Dennis?” inquired 
John, surprised. 

“Yes. We have received no invitation, 
and for that reason I am inclined to think 
we had best see the statue. There is some- 
thing strange in this withdrawal from any 
intercourse which might lead us to the new 
studio,” added the master, in a meditative 
tone. 

“Would not another day serve equally 
well for the visit ?” sighed John Winter, 
with a glance of regret at his work. 

He was about to begin his “ America.” 

“ No. Every day will find you more ab- 
sorbed now,” replied the other, decisively. 

Several people were gathered in the stu- 
dio of Albert Dennis when they reached it. 
He changed color slightly when he beheld 
them, and became so deeply absorbed in 
conversation with these earlier visitors that 
he was not required to greet them imme- 
diately. The eye of Abraham Blackwood 
slowly traversed the range of busts ; that 
of John Winter darted, in one flash of quick 
intelligence, on the clay figure. 

He beheld his own statue of “ America !” 

How was it possible ? By what trick of 
magic could “America” appear here, and al- 
ready modelled in clay ? The blood rushed 
to his face and surged in his brain. The 
silent wrath of quiet men is always to be 
dreaded. John Winter strode to the side 
of Albert Dennis, seized him by the arm, 
and shook him roughly. 

“ You have stolen my design !” he said, 
in a smothered voice. 

Albert Dennis, changing color again, 
steadied his gaze by looking at the feet of 
the statue ; then he turned with the adroit- 
ness of an eel. 

“ Speak louder, if you wish to ruin me by 
your accusation,” he replied, in a whisper. 

John Winter hesitated; the old sculptor 
joined him. 

“It is my ‘America.’ God knows how 
it came here!” said John, almost with a 
groan. 

The master’s nostril quivered. He was 
about to publicly accuse Albert Dennis of a 
treason, when the latter darted out of the 
door to receive a party of ladies just alight- 
ing from a carriage. He placed himself be- 


137 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


hind this feminine shield so persistently as 
to remain inaccessible. 

“ Come away !” exclaimed John Winter, 
in the same stifled voice of emotion, and 
brushed past the ladies without ceremony. 

His flushed face and disturbed manner 
were noticed, and afterward criticised as an 
evidence of irrepressible chagrin at the suc- 
cess of his former comrade. 

The old sculptor and his pupil returned 
home more swiftly than they had come, in 
a silent mood which presaged storms. Once 
in the sanctum, the master seated himself 
on a stool and clasped his hands about his 
knee, awaiting the outbreak of wrath which 
would relieve alike heart and brain in his 
companion. He was always calm in the 
presence of excitement in another. 

John Winter dashed down his hat, and 
began to pace the floor. 

“ It is mine !” he kept repeating, incohe- 
rently, his blazing eyes fixed on the other, 
as if demanding solution of the mystery. 
“ He is a liar, an impostor, a knave ! He 
has stolen my design, I tell you ! How ?” 

His glance wandered to the w T ooden shut- 
ter, with its broken hasp, of the outer room. 
His desk and portfolio were near it. The 
old sculptor rubbed his knee. 

“ Yes ; he or Angelo climbed in the win- 
dow one evening to see what you were 
about. A fine trick — worthy of the pair ! I 
have doubted that boy until I was ashamed 
of my own suspicions. Well, what are your 
plans?” He looked at John Winter as much 
with curiosity as compassion. 

“ To punish him !” said John, hoarsely, 
great drops of moisture starting on his 
knitted brow. “ Should such a crime go 
unpunished ? That would guarantee future 
impunity for similar theft. Silence is some- 
times weakness. There is always a time to 
speak. I will speak — now ! All the world 
shall know that Albert Dennis has stolen 
the design of my ‘America . 1 The truth 
shall reach those halls of justice in his na- 
tive State for which his statue is destined. 
I will go there myself. My life shall be 
henceforth devoted to — ” 

“Revenge!” interposed the old sculptor, 
quietly. 

John Winter paused at the word; the 
suggestion was repulsive to him. 

“No,” he answered, hotly: “self-vindi- 
cation and fair-play.” 

The young man threw himself down on 
a bench and wiped his brow. 

“I believe that your design has been 


stolen, either by my former pupil or An- 
gelo,” said Abraham Blackwood, in a clear 
voice. “ May they both live to want bread 
for tampering with the work of an honest 
man ! I also believe that, as Albert Dennis 
was wholly incapable of executing the life- 
size figure in clay with the cleverness and 
grace apparent in every line, he has em- 
ployed certain Italian modellers, skilful in 
their craft, to assist him. These, in turn, 
were incapable of creating, but they have 
shielded him from criticism, which would 
fall to our lot, by their technical knowl- 
edge and accuracy. Bah ! You could find 
a trace of all the celebrities of antiquity in 
Albert Dennis’s ‘ America , 1 if you searched 
for them. The face is the Niobe of the 
Uffizi, and the extended arm not unlike 
the Apollo Belvidere. It is your design, 
with a dozen resemblances grafted on it 
by the modellers.” 

“You can calmly discuss such frauds, and 
not lift your finger to prevent them !” ex- 
claimed John Winter, indignantly. 

“I am old. It is a good thing to live 
peaceably with your neighbors, if possible. 
I believe all I have stated, but how prove 
it ? Look before you leap, my lad. If you 
accuse Albert Dennis of theft you must 
prove it. Perhaps he will force you, by 
legal measures, to substantiate your words. 
How can you maintain that he was not 
executing in clay an ‘ America 1 at the time 
when you were dreaming over your ideal, 
and helping me with the accursed colored 
statue? The subject is not an unusual 
one. If your work was completed the case 
would be different. Angelo would swear, 
with true Italian prudence, that he knew 
nothing beyond his chisel, hammer, and 
block of marble. I can have your sketch- 
es exhibited to-morrow, if you like.” 

“ Who would believe in me ?” demanded 
John, bitterly. 

He rose abruptly. The calm reasoning 
of the old sculptor had cooled liis first 
wrath, but he was in that mental condition 
of bewilderment and trouble which still 
resents the intrusion of logical reasoning. 

“Albert Dennis will float on the surface 
for a time, and then he will sink,” said the 
old sculptor. 

“Why should he ever sink, after such a 
beginning?” cried John, in a tone of pro- 
fessional pique, which would have amused 
himself at another time. 

“ He will sink because of his own lack 
of perseverance,” replied the master. “ In 


138 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

the mean while we must endure him as a 
celebrity, and think as little of him as 
possible. Do you recall Cowley’s words? 

1 Now, as being much known by sight and 
pointed at, I cannot comprehend the honor 
that lies in that ; whatsoever it be, every 
mountebank has it more than the best doc- 
tor.’ ” 

“ Oh, how easy it is to talk !” exclaimed 
John Winter, in an accent of irritability. 

He snatched his hat and went out. The 
old sculptor did not resent this curtness in 
departure. Left alone, he almost smiled at 
his own moderation. He preached world- 
ly wisdom, forbearance, prudence, to a 
younger man, w T hen in his day he would 
have assailed an antagonist like Albert 
Dennis with any firebrand of reproach 
within his grasp ! He dreaded handling 
the delinquent now according to his de- 
serts, for fear of embroiling John Winter at 
the outset of a career. 

The young man, more fiery than impetu- 
ous, had rushed forth in the determination 
to find his rival, and wrest from him a de- 
fence or explanation. The door of Albert 
Dennis’s studio was locked. John Winter 
recoiled, his resolutions driven back like 
a wave that hurls itself against a barrier. 
He turned away slowly, and rambled out 
toward the Cascine, now deserted in the 
autumn drought. Dejection and lassitude 
succeeded his first excitement. He saw 
ever before his eyes the figure in clay 
mocking at him, as the Iris had mocked, 
but completed, perfected by another hand, 
■while he had lent his hand to trivial tasks. 
Precious moments never to be recalled! 
Was it ungrateful to consign the colored 
statue to a deeper oblivion than that to 
which the old sculptor had dedicated it ? 

He did not return until night. On the 
bridge he met the workman Angelo, with 
his wife and family, going to the thea- 
tre. John Winter darted the most terri- 
ble glance of which his gray eyes were ca- 
pable at the workman. Angelo met the 
look with the tranquil innocence of a child, 
and touched his cap respectfully. 

“Tell your master that I will call on 
him in the morning,” said John. 

“ Si, signore,” answered Angelo, humbly 
awaiting further orders. 

“I expect him to be at home,” added 
John, significantly. 

Angelo bowed, and they separated. 

The young sculptor slowly pursued his 
way homeward. Never had the streets 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

appeared so narrow, dusty, and noisy; 
never had the stone stairway, and the old 
house where he dwelt, seemed so dark, 
lonely, mournful. 

The cobbler who occupied a little den at 
the door, which served him for shop and 
porter’s-lodge in one, made some remark, 
in addition to his usual evening salutation, 
which John did not heed. Frequently he 
paused to chat with the cobbler, as they 
were excellent friends. To-night he was 
in no mood for such gossip. 

When he reached the loggia he was sur- 
prised to observe several boxes outside the 
opposite door. The rooms on the other 
side of the loggia had evidently been rent- 
ed. John Winter was no longer a hermit 
on the sixth floor; he had a neighbor. In 
his surprise at the circumstance he forgot 
his own misery. 

A table, somewhat battered, still occu- 
pied the centre of the loggia. John ap- 
proached it curiously. A small leather 
bag and a handkerchief had been careless- 
ly deposited on it. These articles belong- 
ed to a woman. He was more than puz- 
zled ; he was confounded. What manner 
of woman had come to dispute his sole 
possession of the loggia? Was she young 
or old, pretty or ugly ? 

The opposite door opened, and an old 
servant approached, took up the bag and 
handkerchief, and looked at John Winter. 

“ Good - evening,” he said, in Italian, 
amused by the prompt vigilance of her 
movement in securing the bag. 

“ Good - evening, signore,” she replied, 
with civility, and withdrew. 

John was half tempted to descend the 
stairs and demand explanations of the 
cobbler. 

“ I shall know who she is soon enough,” 
he reflected, and entered the darkness of 
his own abode. 

Once more his personal interests over- 
whelmed him like a sombre cloud. He 
seated himself at a table, and supported 
his head on his hands. He reviewed the 
events of the day which had so unexpect- 
edly interrupted his hopes and cut off his 
future at a single blow. In the morning 
his fingers had already touched the clay 
about to obey his will, when he was divert- 
ed by the master, and forced to contem- 
plate Albert Dennis’s already completed 
work. During the months which had 
elapsed since he had made his first sketch, 
and been diverted by other things, Albert 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

Dennis had been undermining him by a 
rival production. He had never experi- 
enced the same sense of depression and iso- 
lation as at this moment. A candle burnt 
before him ; he sat with his elbows rest- 
ing on the table. To-morrow he must con- 
front Albert Dennis, but already he had no 
hope of the result. In this very room the 
traitor, perhaps then meditating the deed 
of ingratitude, had invested him in the 
dress-coat for the fete of St. John the Bap- 
tist. That was John Winter’s first and last 
appearance in Florentine society. Deceit 
is an element of character never understood 
by the John Winters; and the arrow ever 
finds the victim defenceless. He stared at 
the star of caudle fixedly. He saw beyond 
the phantom of the clay figure, which w T as 
more tangible than a phantom. 

Suddenly he heard the chords of a piano, 
and then the notes of a sweet, pure voice 
singing. John Winter raised his head and 
listened. The piano belonged to his new 
neighbor. The voice rose and fell in mod- 
ulations without effort, as if the owner was 
improvising, which harmonized with the 
hour and the loneliness of this house-top. 
Then the singer, as if moved by a sudden 
impulse, lapsed into the simple ballad of 
“ Annie Laurie.” 

This ballad was associated with the 
childhood of John Winter. His mother 
had sung it on the rare occasions when 
song welled to her lips, and in a voice more 
rich and full than that which now reached 
his ear. A sentiment of pain and tender- 
ness vibrated in the breast of the young 
man at this unexpected appeal. He had 
almost forgotten the pale, sorrowful moth- 
er for so many years. 

What memories are awakened by a fa- 
miliar strain of music! “Annie Laurie,” 
murmured low on the sands of the shore 
at Herringville, at the season of year when 
the crickets chirped their melancholy note 
beneath the windows of the little red 
house, and the village wore the garb of 
brief summer holiday! “Annie Laurie,” 
in the twilight, floated across the loggia 
of an old house in the Oltz’ Arno quarter 
of Florence with the same sweetness and 
pathos of simple melody. Tears rose to 
the eyes of the listener, who thus linked 
together the sadness and the hope of such 
an echo, without being aware of it. He 
was not ashamed of the tears, as he was 
alone and in the dark. Swift impulse ac- 
tuated his next movement. He opened 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 189 

his door, traversed the loggia, and knock- 
ed on that of his new neighbor. 

The old woman appeared, and eyed him 
suspiciously. 

John paused, astonished by his own au- 
dacity. 

“ Tell your mistress how much I thank 
her for the English song,” he stammered. 

“ Si, signore,” replied the old woman, 
and closed the door. 

The music ceased abruptly. 

John Winter returned to his seat and re- 
sumed his former attitude, his gaze fixed 
on the candle -flame. What change had 
occurred in his absence ? The statue of 
Albert Dennis still hovered before him, 
but he beheld it in the light of a fresh in- 
telligence. Darkness became luminous. 
The “America ” was his own design, yet how 
unlike his dreams ! The face was not that 
of Celia; neither was the attitude that of 
the snow-woman of the brook. Why had 
he not perceived the dissimilarity before ? 
His eye sparkled. He made a gesture as 
if tossing a feather from the loggia parapet. 

“ Let him keep it,” he soliloquized. “ The 
study was only an illusion, after all.” 

Then he w r ent to bed, humming the fa- 
miliar strain of “Annie Laurie.” 


CHAPTER IY. 

THE ROMANCE OF A LOGGIA. 

The next morning John Winter decided 
to present himself at the studio of his rival, 
as he had stated he would do the previous 
evening. In the dawn his desire to con- 
front Albert Dennis had cooled. No good 
w'ould result from the interview, he was as- 
sured. His resentment had not abated, but 
had acquired a new form. Persuaded, by 
the sudden revelation of the night, that the 
statue of “America” would never approach 
the ideal of his thoughts, he determined to 
seek further hope, and courage returned to 
his breast. 

When he emerged from his door he re- 
membered his neighbor. At the same mo- 
ment the opposite portal was opened, then 
suddenly closed to a mere crack. The 
young man became aware that a stranger 
was inspecting him, while remaining invis- 
ible. He experienced a novel sensation, 
pleasurable and exciting. Then he glanced 
with some dismay at his own apparel, which 
was shabby and worn. The stranger must 


140 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


take him for a workman, he thought with 
a shade of annoyance. Well, he was a 
workman. 

This time he paused at the glass ^window 
of the cobbler, and demanded information 
concerning the new lodger of the sixth 
floor. The cobbler smiled, shrugged his 
shoulders, and ceased to tap on the sole 
he was mending. The new lodger was a 
lady, a foreigner, with one servant. She 
was a§“ good as bread, the cobbler opined. 
She had a- piano, and — Santo Cristo ! — he 
thought all his bones would have been 
broken yesterday in aiding to carry it up- 
stairs. 

John Winter went his way, much inter- 
ested in these details. He found himself at 
the door of Albert Dennis before he had 
fully decided what he would say to this an- 
tagonist. A card on the door announced, 
“ Gone to Paris on pressing business.” John 
Winter turned away, marvelling what had 
become of Angelo, and how Albert Dennis 
could absent himself at the time when his 
clay figure would be cast in plaster. His 
rival was absent ; all explanations were sus- 
pended. He found the master a shade more 
sombre than yesterday, and strove to make 
reparation for his own curtness of the pre- 
vious day by an increased deference of man- 
ner. His own spirits were lightened ; youth 
and fine health aided him in dispelling the 
despondency induced by the blow he had 
sustained. There was a tenacity of purpose 
in him lacking in both Albert Dennis and 
Abraham Blackwood. 

He tore the sketches of “America” into 
fine strips, knelt by the empty hearth, and, 
kindling a match, watched them consume 
to tinder. The old sculptor found him thus 
occupied, while the little tongues of flame 
destroyed his work and the brightest hope 
he had yet cherished. His aspect was 
thoughtful — that of a man who, after a 
struggle, proclaims a task done. 

“You give up the battle easily,” said 
Abraham Blackwood, in a gloomy tone. 

“ I have not fought the battle yet,” said 
John, soberly. “I am clearing away the 
cobwebs, that is all. I am going to begin 
now. I have a superstition : I believe I am 
to achieve something this time.” 

“Then let us mend the shutter,” said 
the master, with a grimace. “ Take your 
studies home with you at night, by all 
means.” 

Albert Dennis was absent a fortnight; 
and, whatever transpired within the seclu- 


sion of his studio during this time remained 
unknown to the public, for the door was 
always locked, with the card of explanation 
on the panel. The journey which Albert 
Dennis was forced to take was opportune. 
He was obliged, to make the acquaintance 
of a gentleman in Paris in direct reference 
to the success of his statue. This traveller 
had been chosen as umpire on the purchase 
of the work. He departed with alacrity. 
Auger cools in the lapse of days; courage 
to maintain a chosen part increases with 
opportunity for reflection. 

No person felt more fully persuaded of 
his own innocence in the matter of which 
John Winter accused him than Albert Den- 
nis. There was a fatality in the visit to 
his studio of the old sculptor and John 
Winter, certainly, and the instant was a 
critical one for him when the latter accused 
him of theft. The term has a disagreeable 
sound in the mouth of a professional rival. 
It had been necessary that he should make a 
statue of “Liberty,” or “ Columbia,” if he was 
to succeed. No such urgency existed in 
the case of John Winter. One evening An- 
gelo had shown him some sketches which 
belonged in the old sculptor’s studio ; per- 
haps he retained something of the outline 
for his own work, which was pushed for- 
ward with greater expedition for the dis- 
covery. 

When Albert Dennis returned, John 
Winter did not seek him. Instead, he re- 
ceived a letter from Abraham Blackwood, 
which he tore into fragments, and kept 
silent. 

John Winter had returned to his abode 
with a certain eagerness which surprised 
himself. He glanced about the loggia and 
found it deserted. He would like to see 
his neighbor, the owner of the voice. She 
remained invisible. He was disappointed. 
John Winter’s life had been wholly devoid 
of feminine society; and in the very novelty 
of his present propinquity to a woman, he 
began unconsciously to attach importance 
to her vicinity, to build a resemblance to 
certain harmonious forms existing in his 
own thought out of the sound of her voice. 
The voice was that of youth. John Win- 
ter had not forgotten the American prin- 
cess ; he thought of her with a certain ten- 
der homage which separated her from the 
annoyance induced by her mother’s con- 
duct. Celia had no place in his daily life, 
however. She belonged to the studio— to 
the plaster and clay and marble, which re- 


141 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

ceive the impress of warm, living features 
like pale shadows. 

John sought his own rooms, but left the 
outer door half open. He listened eagerly 
for the fresh notes of the pure voice which 
had so charmed him. Silence brooded over 
the loggia ; the bird might have flown from 
the aspect of desertion visible. 

“ She lias friends ; she will be absent of- 
ten,” thought John Winter, with a shade 
of increasing disappointment. 

He sighed ; he felt himself to be without 
friends. One old man in the world cared 
for him ! At nine o’clock the sound of 
voices reached his ear, accompanied by ap- 
proaching footsteps on the stairs. Two fe- 
male figures traversed the loggia. The 
first was slender and tall ; her boots tapped 
the brick floor as she moved. The second 
was the old servant, who shuffled along in 
slippers, and fitted a large key into the op- 
posite door. The face of his neighbor re- 
mained invisible, owing to the darkness, and 
she did not turn her head to glance in the 
direction of John Winter’s abode. Both 
mistress and maid vanished. In vain John 
strained his ear to listen for a second ren- 
dering of “Annie Laurie,” or a note of the 
piano. 

“Perhaps she was offended by my 
thanks,” he thought, disquieted. 

The next night he returned to his rooms 
at an earlier hour than usual, in hopes of 
obtaining a glimpse of the stranger. If he 
could see her face once he would be satis- 
fied. During the fine warm evenings he 
had spent his hours of idleness in the log- 
gia, which was the chief attraction of his 
dwelling ; but now he withdrew craftily, as 
one might scatter crumbs for a shy spar- 
row afraid of the feast. If he left the place 
untenanted, possibly his neighbor would 
occupy it. He began to associate the ces- 
sation of music and the seclusion of the 
stranger with himself; she might not wish 
to know him. 

The third evening this state of affairs ir- 
ritated the young man. He found one of 
the cards which the old sculptor had de- 
signed when the bust of the princess was 
exhibited, and which bore the name of 
John Winter. Then he set himself to the 
task of writing a line on it, couched in 
terms of the most elaborate and formal 
courtesy, in which he assured his neighbor 
that the loggia was entirely at her sole 
disposition, and she might consider it as 
appertaining to her own apartment. By 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

what fatality did he drop his pen on the 
face of this card, and afterward take it up 
with inky fingers? How did it happen 
that an hour’s search about his premises, 
with flickering candle and flushed face, 
was not rewarded by the discovery of an- 
other card, or a scrap of paper, save a sheet 
already adorned with a sketch of Bacchus ? 
The card must be used, ink and all. When 
he delivered his own missive at the oppo- 
site door the old servant shook her finger 
at him. John Winter became angry, al- 
most defiant. He determined to remain 
out the next evening, and abandon the 
field. 

He went to a garden - concert, sipped 
beer, and listened to the deafening sounds 
of a military band, which made his head 
ache. What did the old servant mean by 
shaking her finger at him ? Surely neigh- 
bors might be civil, without anticipating 
that he would force his way to intimacy 
if it was not desired. Then a softer feel- 
ing succeeded a # resentment which was so 
strangely blended from boyish curiosity 
and pique. John Winter possessed, in- 
nately, the reverence for woman which be- 
longs to the Gothic races. He was touch- 
ed by the possible fear of him these lonely 
creatures might feel, who had come to 
dwell on the house-top. If he could reas- 
sure them ! Above all, he had never once 
obtained a glimpse of his neighbor’s face, 
whose voice was also mute. 

At ten o’clock he returned home. The 
loggia was tenanted at last ! The old ser- 
vant sat with her head leaning against the 
wall. A slender figure in black stood be- 
side the parapet, with two white hands 
folded on the stone. John Winter would 
have liked to pause, and find some means of 
expressing his pleasure in finding the place 
occupied, but he experienced, in his shy- 
ness and confusion, a conviction that such 
a measure would be infringing on his own 
invitation to consider the loggia a portion 
of the other apartment. He raised his cap, 
uttered a brief good-evening, and entered 
his own door, which he closed with an em- 
phasis which left no doubt as to his inten- 
tions of remaining secluded. 

The girl beside the parapet turned her 
head quickly and looked after him. She 
sighed deeply several times, and then she 
yawned. 

For a week John pursued the same course. 
He remained out until ten o’clock, then 
passing through the loggia with a saluta- 


142 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


tion, entered his own rooms, closing the 
door. The crumbs which he scattered 
for the bird had succeeded in luring it 
forth : the loggia was usually tenanted 
when he returned home. 

One evening, after he had thus made a 
prisoner of himself, the chords of the piano 
became again audible. John smiled in the 
darkness of the gloomy chamber, and lis- 
tened eagerly. The fingers wandering over 
the piano keys played “Annie Laurie,” 
then changed the simple melody to an Ital- 
ian aria. The sweet voice, delicate and sil- 
very in tone, again wooed John Winter’s 
ear, and held him spellbound. He drunk 
in the sounds with every sense for an hour. 
It seemed to him some new emotion, some 
vital force, w T as unchained in him, hitherto 
dormant. He rose to seek the singer and 
pour out his heart to her ; she must under- 
stand him ! 

At the door he turned back. He might 
terrify her in his present mood. He light- 
ed his candle instead, and placed it on the 
table. Then his fingers groped instinc- 
tively for the pencil and the sheet of paper 
bearing already the sketch of Bacchus. 
He reversed it, and began to draw on the 
other side. That new force within him 
of which he was conscious demanded out- 
ward expression. He might have expend- 
ed all emotion at the feet of the sinofer 
in w’ords, moved beyond control by the 
spell of her voice. John Winter, as if 
obeying the power of some mesmeric force, 
designed a small head, slightly inclined, 
and with drooping eyelids. When the 
rough outline was completed he held it at 
arm’s-length ; his features began to quiver, 
his gray eye dilated. The small bent head 
possessed for him the strangest element of 
familiarity. Had it been always before 
him, every line could not have been more 
distinctly revealed. 

He forgot the present, the living woman 
his neighbor, even the old city which had 
sheltered him so long. He stood again in 
the dark night with his face pressed against 
the window-pane, gazing in at the young 
girl Celia Bayard asleep. The memory 
was so vivid, so painful, that he again felt 
the chill rain beating on his shoulders, cov- 
ered by the ragged jacket. For the first 
time, John Winter, the man, compared his 
lot with that of the American princess, as 
John Winter, the boy, had not dreamed of 
doing. She had been sheltered in the 
warm room, while he stood outside in the 


storm, in the tender youth of both. She, 
still linked with his life in some sort, occu- 
pied a high place, was caressed, spoiled, and 
adored, while he remained in the nook of 
Abraham Blackwood’s studio, and without 
other friends. He rejected the unw T orthy 
thought. 

“ Bah ! she is only a girl,” he said, aloud. 

When the day dawned he still sat at his 
table, his eyes closed, and his head resting 
on his hand ; he was not asleep. 

The following evening he sought the 
sixth floor slowly, and without enthusiasm. 
He brought a portfolio under his arm, al- 
though he was wearied with the day’s 
work, in the hope of receiving some fresh 
inspiration from the singing of his neigh- 
bor. The loggia was deserted. As he opened 
his door a card fell from the crack where it 
had been inserted. He snatched it up, and 
hastened to examine it with the aid of his 
candle. He read : 

“ Miss Ritchie presents her compliments 
to Mr. Winter, and trusts he will continue 
to occupy the loggia as usual.” 

John turned the card in his fingers a 
moment. 

“ It would be more natural, certainly,” 
he murmured. 

He w r ent out and leaned on the parapet, 
contemplating the pure sky beyond the 
clustering roofs and chimneys. 

“ If I should ever meet her face to face, I 
might suggest that we divide the loggia 
with a line of chalk, drawn on the tiles,” 
lie. mused, with a sense of humor in the 
situation. 

Then lie became aware of the rustling of 
feminine garments on the brick tiles, and 
his neighbor actually stood beside the par- 
apet. John had established himself close 
to the wall of his rooms, and the stranger 
paused at an equal distance on her side. 

“ Good-evening,” said Miss Ritchie, with 
a lofty dignity of bearing. 

“Good-evening,” responded John Win- 
ter, quietly. 

A silence ensued. Each observed the 
other wfith curiosity, while appearing to 
gaze at the stars. Certainly John Winter’s 
neighbor was young ; one swift glance as- 
sured him of that fact. She was tall and 
supple in form, her attitudes and gestures 
possessing that languid grace which usu- 
ally characterizes Southern races ; her com- 
plexion was clear and pale, her features 
irregular, and her black hair rippled in 
waves over her forehead and temples. Her 


143 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


profile, turned to the young sculptor at this 
moment, presented to his notice a charm- 
ing little nez retrousse — one of those noses 
which evince courage, and perhaps audaci- 
ty, in the possessor. 

“ How warm it is 1” said the young lady, 
at length. 

“Ye§. Have you come to Florence re- 
cently ?” inquired John. 

“ I have just arrived,” she said, promptly. 

“ I have lived here for years,” continued 
John, venturing to look at her. “ How 
you will learn to love our old city !” 

The delicate and perverse little ,nose of 
his companion acquired a more decided 
upward curve. 

“I am not sure I shall ever love Flor- 
ence. At present I hate it.” 

John made a gesture of dismay. 

“ How is it possible !” he exclaimed, as 
if personally affronted. 

Miss Ritchie looked at him with a pair 
of bright, mischievous eyes, and burst into 
a peal of laughter. John laughed also. 
The old servant came to the open door and 
looked at them. Her presence sobered her 
mistress. The girl again turned her face 
in profile, gazing at the evening sky, and 
began to trace lines on the stone parapet 
with her finger. 

“You live here — it is your home — while 
I am a stranger,” she added, in a grave 
tone. 

“ You will soon make friends,” said John. 

The girl raised her head with a proud 
gesture. 

“I do not need friends!” she exclaimed. 
“ I wish no society. My vocation is suffi- 
cient for me.” 

John was puzzled, but a natural delicacy 
kept him silent. 

“lama student of music,” she said, al- 
most defiantly. 

“ I am a student of art,” responded John. 

“ Then we should be friends.” 

“Yes,” said John, simply. “I thought 
you w T ere a little afraid of me, perhaps.” 

“I thought you were a little afraid of 
me,” she retorted, depressing a roguish 
smile, and continuing to trace lines with 
her finger on the stone. 

Here was a favorable opening for a gal- 
lant man to say something opportune. 
John Winter was not a gallant man, versed 
in the arts of flattery. Possibly his com- 
panion felt more confidence in him on that 
account. 

“You are an American ?” she inquired, 


after another pause, during which she stud- 
ied him through her long eyelashes. 

“ Oh yes,” said John. 

“I am glad of that,” she said, with a 
half sigh. 

“Why ?” 

“Because I am an American also. Be- 
sides, I would rather have one of my own 
countrymen lodged near than— a foreign- 
er.” 

“ Thank you ; I understand. If you ever 
wish the loggia left to you, please tell me.” 

“ I will warn you,” she retorted, with her 
most mischievous expression. “Are you 
from the North ?” 

“Yes; I am a native of New England.” 

“ Then you are a Yankee,” she pursued, 
naively. “ That is a pity : I was reared to 
despise Yankees. I am a Southerner.” 

“A grave pity,” rejoined John. “I was 
about to urge you to call upon me if you 
need a friend.” 

The girl hesitated a moment, then ex- 
tended her hand to him. John approach- 
ed and took the proffered hand. The pret- 
ty head, with its rippling black hair, was 
on a level with his shoulder. The young 
man stooped, and searched her face in the 
twilight with those brilliant eyes of his, 
which moved people strangely according 
to their temperament. 

“Ah, if you knew what your voice had 
done for me !” he began, in a low, quiver- 
ing whisper. “If I could tell you all 
that 1 Annie Laurie ’ recalled to my memory ! 
Last night I wished to seek you and throw 
myself at your feet, before I had ever seen 
you.” 

The change which passed over the face 
of his companion at these words surprised 
even John Winter, carried away by his own 
enthusiasm. She looked at him for a mo- 
ment pensively, almost tenderly, and a flush 
dyed her face, even to the temples, with a 
rosy glow which was apparent in the dusk. 
Then the expression of her black eyes hard- 
ened, grew cold ; she released her fingers 
from his clasp slowly, and without embar- 
rassment. 

“ Did my voice move you ?” she inquired. 
“You shall hear it often; but I will reserve 
my tiresome practising for the day, when 
you are absent. I have found this nook 
to be away from every one, and study. 
My friend, I am going on the stage !” 

She made a gesture of the hand at 
once childish and tragic in uttering these 
words, as if she had confided to an inferior 


144 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


the fact that she — an exiled queen — was 
about to ascend again her throne. 

John Winter fell from cloud-land. He 
drew back to his own side of the loggia, 
bewildered by the statement confided to 
him. 

“ Good-night,” said Miss Ritchie, morti- 
fied by his constrained silence. 

Then she withdrew. John followed her 
example. This evening his portfolio re- 
mained unopened. His thoughts were con- 
centrated on his neighbor. 

“ Good God ! .that young creature going 
on the stage !” he ejaculated, again staring 
at the flame of his solitary candle. “ Where 
are her friends ? — what will become of her ?” 

A moth hovered about his candle on del- 
icately frosted wings, then passed through 
the fire, and fell crippled on the table. 
John took up the insect, and placed it on 
the window ledge, a painful comparison 
arising in his own mind. Was not the 
stage the dazzling flame, and his neighbor 
the moth ? Unfeigned alarm disturbed his 
meditations, and interrupted his reveries 
over his drawing. 

The loggia began to wear a different as- 
pect. Not only was it swept and garnish- 
ed as it had never been since the occupa- 
tion of John Winter, but the bits of board, 
the fragments of boxes in corners, disap- 
peared, and on the centre-table appeared a 
little work-basket piled with colored wors- 
teds. This work-basket was the key to the 
door opened before John Winter. The 
young man, susceptible to every outward 
influence, to the degree of a sensitive re- 
sponsive vibration, came for the first time 
under a feminine sway — youthful, buoyant, 
and at the same time capricious and tyran- 
nical. Miss Ritchie felt an immeasurable 
superiority to plain John Winter in the 
daily intercourse now established between 
them. At this date she sustained herself 
by this sentiment toward most of the world. 
A bird in a cage appeared suspended on 
her wall of the loggia, with tufts of grasses 
and fern fronds grouped about the little 
prisoner until he seemed embowered in 
green foliage. 

“Ah ! you like birds ?” said John Winter, 
regretting that he had not brought the 
canary. 

That evening he discovered a further 
transformation in the airy loggia: several 
plants bloomed on the parapet near the 
bird-cage. The faded fresco of the ceiling 
appeared less dilapidated with the tufts 


of grasses and living plants below. John’s 
eye sparkled with a sudden resolution. 
He made no comment on the plants, even 
when his neighbor bent over them, inhal- 
ing their perfume and tenderly restoring 
a drooping blossom. 

“You like flowers?” he said, as he had 
mentioned the bird. 

“ I love everything that is beautiful,” re- 
plied Justinia Ritchie. 

John looked at her meditatively. Al- 
ready the image of his neighbor was famil- 
iar to him. He was never able to disasso- 
ciate her with trailing robes which acquired 
an indefinable grace, however simple the 
material, from the carriage of the wearer. 
He confessed to himself that Justinia had 
an aspect of natural distinction which the 
American princess, robbed of her beauty 
and her rich frame of circumstance, would 
have lacked. This stamp of personality, 
independent of surroundings, puzzled and 
disturbed John Winter. 

“ She was not born to struggle with pover- 
ty,” he thought, with pity in his heart, watch- 
ing his companion busied with her flowers. 
“ She is out of place, even here. Heavens ! 
will she be more at ease before the foot- 
lights, and wearing a pasteboard crown ?” 

The next evening John returned home 
at an earlier hour than usual. He was not 
alone ; two men followed him up the stairs, 
struggling and panting beneath the -weight 
of a burden. John glanced quickly at the 
opposite door, which remained closed, much 
to his satisfaction. His neighbor was out, 
and he had reckoned on this opportune ab- 
sence to execute his own plans. The after- 
noon sun still streamed across the loggia, 
and the canary in his green bower ruffled 
his silky plumage, as if receiving a bath of 
golden sunbeams. 

When Justinia returned at nightfall, the 
old servant, who had preceded her to un- 
lock the door, paused in the loggia with 
an exclamation of •surprise. The whole 
parapet bloomed with plants, which formed 
a rampart of white and rosy flowers above 
the stone. The pots were ranged from the 
wall on John Winter’s side, and a tiny 
orange-tree formed the central boundary- 
line, while a fine specimen of jasmine, star- 
red with rich and fragrant blossoms, had 
infringed on the territory of Justinia. 

The girl paused, looking at the flowers, 
and the rosy glow, induced alone by pro- 
found emotion in her, overspread her face. 
The bird twittered softly in its cage. 


145 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


“ Oh, liow lovely !” she exclaimed, at 
length, with a deep sigh of delight. 

Then John Winter advanced, smiling, 
from his own door, gratified by the success 
of his surprise. Justinia once more gave 
him her hand with an eloquent look and 
gesture. She was pleased, touched, and 
flattered, but there was no trace of embar- 
rassment in her manner. 

“ He would be a handsome man if he 
were better dressed. What magnificent 
eyes he has!” she thought, with feminine 
keenness and cruelty of criticism. 

“ This is the City of Flowers, you know,” 
said John, approaching the parapet. “ We 
must gather as much of the summer and 
autumn harvest here as possible before the 
cold winds come. Perhaps the flowers may 
make you learn to love Florence.” 

The little nose of Justinia became again 
gaucily defiant. 

“ Perhaps I am superstitious in the mat- 
ter, but I believe that I shall never love the 
city. I hate it !” 

“ Why ?” demanded John, soberly. 

She shook her head. 

“ I do not know yet” she said, perversely. 

“ Surely you have a pair of eyes in your 
head,” said John, with boyish bluntness, 
and a touch of severity in his tone. 

“ Thank you ! I believe that I have;” and 
Justinia opened her black eyes, dancing 
with fun. 

The glance thrilled through John; his 
heart stirred to a more rapid pulsation. 

“ I do not understand you,” he began. 

“ Pray do not attempt it, then,” she in- 
terrupted, airily. “ Introduce me to your 
flowers instead.” 

The happiest hour of John Winter’s life, 
for pure enjoyment, ensued. Justinia bent 
over each plant as if inspired by sympathy 
with its birth and growth, insisting on 
learning its name and history. Questions, 
replies — often given at random, owing to 
botanical deficiency on John’s part — and 
laughter mingled with this introduction to 
the flowers. The train of Justinia’s black 
dress coiled about John’s feet sometimes; 
their fingers touched beneath the leaves, 
which spread like miniature trees before 
them; the rippling black hair, which ar- 
ranged itself in a different fashion each 
day, was alluringly near the young man’s 
face at times, and seemed to defy him 
with its provoking waves and lustrous soft- 
ness. 

“ The orange-tree shall be the boundary 
10 


line between your possessions and mine,” 
said Justinia, merrily. “Why have you 
placed the jasmine beyond ?” 

“ It is a gift, if you will accept such a 
trifle,” said John, awakening from dreams. 
“ The old sculptor told me the other day 
about the Empress Josephine and her fond- 
ness for flowers — above all, the jasmine 
brought from her tropical home. The 
fancy pleased me that your home must 
also be tropical, and therefore the jasmine 
would be to you a souvenir .” 

The features of his companion contract- 
ed with pain. 

“ Don’t speak to me of my home,” she 
said, quickly. “ There ! some time I will 
tell you about it ; not now !” 

She turned away to her side of the par- 
apet with a movement of wringing her 
hands. John remained standing beside 
the orange-tree. The change in her man- 
ner recalled him from revery. He feared 
that he had wounded her. How easily 
one probes the secret grief of a stranger by 
a careless word ! 

Never had the night appeared equally 
luminous and tranquil to the young man. 
Above the street, remote from the town, 
this nook was perfumed by the flowers, be- 
coming shadowy in the darkness; and the 
little bird, already lost in the obscurity, ut- 
tered a drowsy chirp occasionally of con- 
tentment and security before overcome by 
sleep. Opposite stood Justinia, absorbed 
in painful reflection, on which he had no 
right to intrude — yet a companion, a sec- 
ond intelligence, full of subtle sympathies. 
Were they brought together on this house- 
top for mutual help, in the complete isola- 
tion of their surroundings? John asked 
himself this question with the brilliant 
stars above his head, and the scents of 
blossoms floating about him. Perhaps 
some ghostly echo of the past permeated 
this old loggia in the momentary renewal 
of flowers and life. The family used to 
occupy it on summer nights, often to dine 
in it. Here the news of the town was 
brought by intimate friends, and discussed 
by the elders. Here the lover on proba- 
tion, or the wealthy suitor, beheld the maid- 
en of his choice, while her parents discuss- 
ed the marriage settlements. What storms 
and tears may the loggia have sheltered 
when its colors were fresh, and the hearts 
that ached were young! All these actors 
in the drama of life had vanished like a 
shower of autumn leaves, while the seasons 


146 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


recurred, and the stars still sparkled in the 
heavens. 

“ Possibly I detest Florence because I am 
alone in the world,” said Justinia Ritchie, 
in a tearful voice. 

“ I also am alone in the world,” returned 
John Winter. 

Then he added, with a little hesitation, 

“ I wish you would make me a promise. 
We are no longer entire strangers, and, be- 
sides, we come from the same land.” 

“ Well ?” inquired Justinia. 

“ Promise me* never to consider yourself 
alone in the future while I am here,” said 
the young man, in an earnest tone. 

A sob rose in the throat of his compan- 
ion. 

“Ah, what can you ever do for me !” she 
exclaimed, impatiently, and stifled the sob. 

John was silent. The romance of the 
loggia had begun. 


CHAPTER Y. 

FIRST LOVE. 

John Winter was no longer the same 
modest and quiet youth who had worked 
in the studio of the old sculptor for years. 
Some fresh impulse of thought, or secret 
spring of action, lent a new energy to all 
his movements. With this change another, 
less desirable, was perceptible as well. He 
no longer worked steadily. He still lin- 
gered over the completion of the portrait 
busts of the little dead children, as if dread- 
ing to commence a more serious task. He 
must supplement the curl falling on -the 
neck of the girl, which he had discovered 
in the tiny photograph, and which might 
add materially to the resemblance of a liv- 
ing face he had never seen. The string of 
coral and locket about the throat were triv- 
ial details not to be ignored. What souve- 
nirs these trinkets might present to the re- 
membrance of the bereaved mother ! 

Frequently the young man interrupted 
his task to wander forth into the coun- 
try, where he would throw himself on the 
ground in the shadow of a wall, clasp his 
hands beneath his head, and dream, as idle 
in appearance as the contadino. Again, he 
sought the courts of the Bargello, or the 
Palazzo Yecchio, cool and silent in the 
heated noonday, with their mural tablets, 
columns, and moss-stained wells. In these 
lonely rambles he sometimes found himself 


in the dirty suburbs where Andrea del Sar- 
to’s “ Last Supper ” still adorns the refecto- 
ry wall of the dismantled convent, and lin- 
gered here so long, absorbed in thought, 
that the old custodian jingled his keys 
warningly to arouse a stranger whom he 
feared had fallen asleep. On other occa- 
sions he sought the cloister of the Scalzi — 
that nook still left as sacred to the young 
genius of the same artist, in which the his- 
tory of John the Baptist is traced — or the 
chapter -room of Santa Maddalena delle 
Pazzi, where Perugino’s “ Saints,” sweet 
and pathetic, group about the crucified 
Saviour. 

John Winter carried with him — whether 
on the white highway, dust-laden, where 
the vineyards already ripened, or in the 
cool twilight of these old cloisters — the 
same image and thought. He wished to 
be alone. 

However, at night he invariably returned 
to the loggia, and with a rapid step. His 
portfolio remained in the corner of his 
chamber, untouched. His neighbor was 
never in the same mood for two consecu- 
tive evenings. The study of feminine char- 
acter in Justinia baffled, interested, and daz- 
zled John at the same time. Girls were un- 
known to him. He pondered for a whole 
morning, while perfecting the little girl’s 
coral necklace, with a deliberation which 
exasperated the old sculptor, on some enig- 
matical phrase uttered by Justinia the pre- 
vious day. If his hand had not lost its 
cunning, much valuable time was being 
wasted. The master perceived the change 
in his pupil, but kept his own counsel. He 
exercised no petty espionage over the youth 
whp had chosen a lodging elsewhere wdien 
free to do so. Perhaps in these moments 
of apparent idleness John was already med- 
itating on a statue which should gain him 
fame. Abraham Blackwood left him in 
peace. 

Blissful summer twilights in the Old log- 
gia, where the plants throve, refreshed with 
water by the hand of Justinia! Glorious 
autumn nights, as yet untouched by frost, 
when the two discussed all possible topics 
of interest and exchanged confidences ! Oh, 
the blank disappointment of John when 
Justinia capriciously closed her door and 
refused to appear ! 

There was another phase of change in the 
young man at this date which would have 
still more surprised the old sculptor had he 
been aware of it. Each evening he made a 


147 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

careful toilet before appearing in the log- 
gia. His hair was brushed ; he was fastidi- 
ous as to his boots and cravat ; his hands, 
hardened by working in clay, occasioned 
him anxiety. He would never be a fine 
gentleman, but he did not wish Justinia to 
deem him a clown. What opinion did she 
hold concerning him? He could not de- 
termine. The doubt disturbed and fascina- 
ted him. Justinia was never the same for 
two days. If he had left her merry and 
playful, he found her dull and depressed 
and silent. The interest which she mani- 
fested in his work and past history — a sym- 
pathy which elicited warm gratitude from 
his heart— was invariably succeeded by a 
haughty reserve as regarded her own affairs. 
One day, when he had appeared earlier than 
usual, Justinia had said, 

“ You must possess much talent. Would 
you like to draw my portrait ?” 

“Yes,” replied John, eagerly. 

“You could reproduce it in marble as 
my bust when I become a celebrity, you 
know,” pursued Justinia, in her most lofty 
tone. “ If I do not succeed, the study can 
be converted into an ideal bust.” 

“ Your features are not sufficiently regu- 
lar for an ideal subject,” said John, quietly. 

“You flatter me!” she retorted, with a 
little toss of the head. 

The young man’s face flushed, and he did 
not immediately speak. 

“I should like to make the sketch be- 
cause it is your face,” he said, at length, in 
a tone which was not very assured. 

“It is not worth the trouble. I should 
not prove a patient model.” 

Justinia rose, humming a song, and went 
to her piano, glancing at herself in a mir- 
ror as she passed. John had never before 
heard her sing as she did that night. Her 
voice gathered a certain volume of power 
and passion seldom perceptible to him, as 
if she was pouring forth the sorrows and 
hopes of her soul before some invisible dei- 
ty. The temple to which his neighbor car- 
ried her aspirations was sacred from his 
intrusion. The melody reached his ear in 
the loggia, and he listened; the fancies of 
Ids brain awakened to life once more. Jus- 
tinia did not appear again that night. 

John took up his portfolio and opened 
it when he entered his chamber. The 
small bent head of his sketch confronted 
him like a reproach. In his ignorance of 
feminine vanity, John was not disturbed by 
Justinia’s abrupt withdrawal. 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

The following morning he went as usual 
to the studio. On the bridge he paused, as 
if confounded by a painful thought which 
had just crossed his mind: perhaps his 
neighbor was offended by his stupid frank- 
ness in stating that her features were not 
sufficiently regular for reproduction in mar- 
ble. Why had he not thought of this be- 
fore ? He retraced his steps to the loggia ; 
the hour was too early to knock on the op- 
posite door. He paused in miserable inde- 
cision. If Justinia would only emerge and 
pardon him ! He went into his room, and 
wrote a note of explanation and apologies. 
This he read several times with ever in- 
creasing disdain for its composition, then 
tore it into fragments. One more glance 
at the opposite door, and he descended to 
the street. The day which followed was 
one of the most useless ever passed by 
John Winter beneath the old sculptor’s 
roof. He sat before his work, and gazed at 
it vacantly for hours. He went to his desk 
for some object, and forgot what the article 
actually was in the act of searching. When 
he was addressed he replied at random. 
Justinia would misunderstand him for a 
whole day ! Terrible doubt and anxiety ! 

The old sculptor looked at him from time 
to time beneath his shaggy eyebrows. He 
knew nothing of the neighbor across the 
loggia, or how seriously the head with the 
rippling black hair — which was not up to 
the standard of marble beauty — was inter- 
fering with the industry of his pupil, hith- 
erto so exemplary. 

That evening John went home filled with 
apprehensions, yet longing to confront Jus- 
tinia. He pictured her wounded, a prey to 
painful thought during the hours which 
had separated them. The loggia was emp- 
ty. John entered his rooms to deposit his 
portfolio. 

A full autumn moon had risen ; already 
a patch of silver rested on the parapet 
and floor of the loggia. What a night for 
reconciliations ! Could Justinia remain in- 
sensible to the charm of the loggia, where 
summer still lingered, and the shadows 
were more mysterious because of the con- 
trasting moonlight? She emerged from 
her door with a white shawl gathered over 
her head. A glance at her mobile face re- 
assured John. Who so gay and gracious 
as Justinia ? 

“ I feared that I might have offended 
you last night,” said John, humbly. 

Justinia raised her eyebrows in surprise. 


148 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

“ How, my friend ?” 

“About your bust. If I might try to 
sketch you !” pleaded John. 

“ That trifle. I had forgotten the mat- 
ter.” 

This was a fib. Justinia had not forgot- 
ten the pin-prick of the previous evening, 
but she wished to assure John of her entire 
indifference. More than once during the 
day she had studied her profile in the glass. 
Her features were irregular, and yet stran- 
gers, men especially, invariably regarded 
her with admiration. It was John Win- 
ter, the sculptor, who assured her she was 
plain. She was very sprightly and charm- 
ing this evening. Possibly in her heart she 
■welcomed the return of John home at night, 
which brought her human companionship. 
She placed herself among the plants near 
the parapet, where the moonlight and the 
white shawl enveloped her in a soft cloud, 
&nd regarded John coquettishly, even de- 
fiantly. Her gestures, her smiles, the glance 
of her black eyes, seemed to say, 

“ Am I, then, so very ugly ?” 

“ Has the American princess the beauty 
of a Greek statue ?” she could not refrain 
from inquiring aloud. 

“ She is very beautiful,” said John, in a 
dreamy tone. 

The suggestion of his companion caused 
him to replace her with the image of Celia 
Bayard, framed in the white shawl, paus- 
ing, pure and pensive, in the moonlight. 
This was a phase of his dual nature : his 
heart was enthralled, rejoiced in the pres- 
ence of Justinia Ritchie; his thought sub- 
stituted Celia, who would ever be to him a 
shadow. Justinia experienced that first 
awakening of interest in Celia which was 
to henceforth form a portion of her own 
life. The girl of the loggia, standing be- 
tween a stormy past and a clouded future, 
contemplated the other girl so widely sep- 
arated by circumstance, aware, with a proud 
swelling of the heart, that they must repre- 
sent two extremes of prosperity and ad- 
versity. 

Suddenly she began to speak, actuated 
by that indefinable envy of the American 
princess which a comparison with herself 
had elicited. 

“I am glad I do not know her!” cried 
Justinia, in a quivering, passionate voice. 
“I should hate her, I am confident. She 
must have only a simpering baby face. 
Did she ever in her life feel the prick of a 
needle in her finger? Ah, I do not under- 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

stand affairs as they exist in this world! 
One girl lives in a rose like a fairy, and 
another has to bear misfortunes which 
would break a man !” 

“ Do not envy the Princess del Giglio,” 
said John, soberly. 

Then Justinia told him her life, carried 
away by the emotion of the moment. 

She was a native of Louisiana, born one 
hundred miles from New Orleans, on a 
plantation of the Mississippi River. Her 
mother having died in her infancy, she was 
reared by her grandmother, her father be- 
ing absent much from home. Justinia’s 
family had held many slaves, and enjoyed 
the patriarchal existence of a flourishing 
plantation. 

“ I was born the heiress of all that,” said 
Justinia, with a little laugh which was al- 
most a sob. “ I am twenty-three years old, 
and I often feel as if I were ninety instead. 
Have you ever known what it was to see 
buildings smoking in the neighborhood 
of your home after an army has passed ? 
Have you watched gun-boats pass on the 
great river, and wished, in your heart, that 
each might sink to the bottom like a stone ? 
Have you ever had starving and w T ounded 
wretches crawl up to your door, begging 
for the food you cannot give them ? Ah, 
no ! you were safe at home in Yankeeland.” 

She said this with indescribable bitter- 
ness. John smiled: at that time he must 
have been struggling through his own 
painful childhood at Herringville. After a 
pause Justinia resumed, in a different tone. 
She wished to describe her grandmother 
to John Winter. He must see her as Jus- 
tinia remembered her — a beautiful old lady, 
dignified in manner, with soft curls of 
white hair beneath her lace cap. Always 
a lady, Justinia insisted; and her own head 
took a more stately pose in speaking of the 
dead grandmother. Then her father ! If 
John could have bbheld the portrait of 
him in the old house, which had been the 
admiration of her own childhood! The 
ladies adored Justinia’s father; he was 
handsome and gay and witty, with the 
blood of the French creole in his veins. 
He lived much at New Orleans in the win- 
ter, and visited the watering-places of the 
North— Saratoga, Sharon Springs, or New- 
port — in the summer season. Grandmoth- 
er dwelt in the shadow of her magnolia 
groves in tranquil seclusion, surrounded 
by her slaves, varied by an occasional visit 
from a neighbor of the next plantation. 


149 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


Justinia recalled dreamily tlie eventful 
visits of her brilliant father. The flitted 
calf was slain for his return ; grandmother’s 
robe of black satin and finest laces emerged 
from the great carved wardrobe in honor 
of the occasion; Justinia’s own curls were 
more carefully brushed, and her muslin 
frock freshly ironed for his critical inspec- 
tion. Toasts were drunk at table with the 
neighbors who came to dine; Justinia re- 
ceived her tiny glass of sparkling cham- 
pagne with the dessert, and the pretty 
box of French bonbons brought her by her 
father from New Orleans. In the warm 
evening, the air heavy with the perfume of 
flowers, the family group were gathered in 
the veranda, while the plantation negroes 
sung to the accompaniment of their ban- 
joes, and danced the “ breakdown ” in the 
open space before the house, their mellow 
voices echoed by others along the shore in 
the shadow of great trees, or by the crew 
of a passing boat. 

Justinia’s father had but one thought in 
these visits — the debut of his daughter, 
his only child, when a young lady grown. 
This was the subject of endless discussion, 
of much castle-building in the veranda of 
the old house. Justinia listened with pre- 
cocious intelligence, and began to believe 
in the grandeur of her own destiny. When 
she emerged from the plantation, a maid- 
en of eighteen, to try her wings in a first 
flight, the devotion of some young neigh- 
boring planter would follow her; or per- 
haps an English nobleman travelling in 
the States would fall in love with her, and 
bear her back to his ancestral halls as his 
bride. She would prove another Carrol 
of Carrolton. Justinia had been thorough- 
ly imbued with the spirit of Southern chiv- 
alry from her cradle. 

Thus the family dreamed of the future 
of its one remaining blossom, while the 
clouds gathered on the horizon of the tem- 
pest destined to uproot the parent plant. 

“ If he could have seen the future of his 
daughter!” sighed Justinia, standing be- 
side the parapet in the moonlight. 

The war came. Grandmother sat strick- 
en in her arm-chair, her hands wandering 
over the folds of her dress. The negroes 
whispered together in groups, with stealthy 
glances at the house. Some of the field- 
hands ran away in the night, but the house- 
servants remained faithful at their post. 
Justinia the child, living in an atmosphere 
electric with danger, fell asleep, to dream 


of fleeing slaves, the boom of cannon, the 
rush of mounted soldiers crashing through 
the woods and trampling the flowers. 

One night she was awakened by the 
touch of grandmother’s hand. Two per- 
sons stood beside her bed. One was grand- 
mother, and the other an officer in gray 
uniform. The child rubbed her eyes a 
moment, and then recognized in this soldier 
who embraced her the father she was nev- 
er to behold again. 

“ Never in this world !” cried Justinia, 
overcome by tears. “He was separated 
from us a weary time, and then killed at 
the battle of Antietam.” 

Her father had joined the holy cause, 
and fought for his country. Justinia was 
firmly persuaded of that now. Duty wears 
so many phases on this globe. 

“ He belonged to the Grays,” she added, 
thoughtfully. “Your father wore the blue 
uniform, I suppose, if he served ?” 

John Winter winced, and colored deeply. 

“My father was not in the service,” he 
stammered. 

The words of his companion awaked 
memories scarcely less painful for himself. 
Was Captain Methley his father? How 
different his childhood from that of the 
girl beside him ! John was of a nature too 
simple and generous to envy Justinia her 
cradle, as he might have envied another 
man. The picture she drew inspired him 
with wonder as much as pity for her subse- 
quent misfortunes. He beheld the possi- 
ble happiness of a sheltered childhood with 
the secret coldness at heart of a nameless 
child, and which accompanies such to the* 
grave. The remembrance of dead Captain 
Methley returned to his mind with a star- 
tling vividness. Had the sailor come home, 
the wealth of Neliemiah Methley would 
have belonged to him instead of to Mrs. 
Bayard. In that case the captain would 
have surely befriended him, especially if 
he were his son. Hannah Stort would not 
have driven him to revolt at the bondage 
of $etli Deems, shoemaker, and run away 
to sea. Hannah Stort had proved herself, 
by means of a torrent of cruel words, the 
best friend he had ever known. 

“I should never have lived!" thought 
John Winter, instinctively extending his 
arms toward the city. 

This art mother, Florence, wore her most 
beautiful aspect at the moment — moonlight 
bathed her domes, bridges, and towers. 

Justinia did not heed him. 


150 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


Awful days succeeded the departure of 
her father at the plantation on the Missis- 
sippi bank. Rumors of disaster and defeat 
shook the household ; letters were rare.; sus- 
pense weighed on all hearts. Grandmoth- 
er sat in her arm-chair and clasped her 
hands, turning pale at any unusual sound. 
Then it was known that her son was dead. 

Justinia’s childhood had changed to 
more than youth in these leaden moments. 
She buried her watch and little treasures 
in the ground, in case of a raiding troop 
surrounding the place. Alarm at the ap- 
proach of the enemy often kept the house- 
hold awake, trembling with apprehension. 
Grandmother sat erect and stately, prepared 
to disarm her foes by the courtesy of her 
manners ; Justinia crouched on a footstool 
beside her, heroic sentiments of vengeance 
in her heart; near the door the servants 
were huddled together, their eyes rolling 
portentously in their black faces at the 
slightest sound. The enemy never arrived. 
Months of privation and abiding sorrow 
lengthened into years. Island No. 10 and 
Vicksburg fell ; yet grandmother remained 
sheltered beneath her own roof, amidst sur- 
rounding desolation. A more mighty en- 
emy than man menaced her. The river rose, 
creeping inch by inch up to the height of 
protecting embankment, then flooded the 
land ! This disaster over, and the wreck 
of property once more gathered together, a 
second evil, more terrible, followed swiftly 
in its wake. Grandmother had removed 
her silver and valuables to New Orleans 
while the river rose, although the mansion 
liad been spared in the inundation, owing 
to the exertions of the country in diverting 
its course. She visited the city with Jus- 
tinia later, in the interests of her property 
gathered there. When the two returned 
to the plantation the house was a smoul- 
dering heap of ashes ! Fire had been dis- 
covered in the night, and the old mansion 
which had braved so many dangers suc- 
cumbed to the flames, in which it crumbled 
and vanished. 

“Nothing was saved!” cried Justinia, 
again moved to passion by the remembrance. 
“ Our portraits, our old furniture, even our 
w T ardrobe, were all destroyed. We were 
homeless ! I remember that my grand- 
mother seated herself on the ground, and 
asked only to be allowed to die. I did not 
say my prayers that night. I thought God 
had forgotten us. What had we done to 
be thus punished ?” 


Afterward the old lady had rallied by a 
supreme effort, had gathered together her 
silver and other relics in New Orleans, 
and had taken her granddaughter to New, 
York. Justinia possessed musical talent 
and a fine voice. The girl studied dili- 
gently, and finally obtained a place in the 
choir of a church at a small salary. 

“We lived in two little rooms on a 
noisy street of the great city, alone and 
unknown,” pursued Justinia, in a low voice. 
“At length my grandmother died. I was 
glad when she died, but oh, how I missed 
her !” 

John Winter approached his neighbor, 
and laid his hand on her arm. 

“ Speak of other matters,” he urged, 
soothingly. « 

Justinia did not look at him. 

“I still sung in the church. I lived I 
scarcely know how, when I look back. 
Sometimes I cannot bear to think of the 
past or the future. If I am ill I always see 
our great river rising to overwhelm the 
embankment, or the flames devouring our 
home. Yes, the jasmine is to me a souve- 
nir. I thank you for the delicate thought. 
The scent of the jasmine reminds me of my 
grandmother, in her lace cap and black 
satin robe. My singing in the church 
choir attracted attention. A lady in the 
congregation invited me to a party at her 
house, and made me sing. The lady was 
rich, fashionable, and what is called a ‘ lion- 
hunter.’ She became my benefactress. 
She is still my benefactress, and it is ow- 
ing to her liberality that I am here. She 
sent me abroad to study for the stage. I 
have already spent three years at Paris, 
and now I have come to Italy. Oh, I will 
work ! It is my pleasure and my life. I 
must win fame and wealth for myself.” 

“Are you sure-^” John began, and 
paused. 

“ Of success ?” supplemented the girl, 
quickly. “Yes; it is fate.” 

John remained mute. His heart was 
full of unspoken pity, which might jar on 
delicate sensibilities if uttered freely. A 
great gulf divided him from his neighbor. 
She might speak with a certain pride in 
regret of her infancy ; he would not pre- 
sume to reveal to her his own history of 
an earlier date than the career of the cabin- 
boy on board the bark Swallow. His ret- 
icence did not chill Justinia; she was not 
thinking of her listener. All she w T as con- 
scious of at the moment was the need of 


151 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

an intelligent sympathy. John Winter rep- 
resented this element to her, and she was 
contented. 

“ Perhaps your father killed mine in bat- 
tle,” she said. 

“ Impossible !” cried John. 

Justinia shook her head, and sighed. 

“We are not enemies; we are neighbors 
now. Well, 

“ ‘ Untfer the eod and the dew, 

Waiting the Judgment-day ; 

Love and tears for the Blue, 

Tears and love for the Gray.’ ” 

John Winter slept little that night. He 
had left his shutter open, and the moon- 
light flooded his chamber. When he did 
slumber, the thoughts of the evening’s con- 
versation with Justinia were mingled in 
his brain. Amidst these confused images 
he stood on the beach at Herringville, once 
more a little boy, watching a sail on the 
horizon. The sail grew to a stately ship, 
ever advancing toward the shore, only 
John could distinguish no crew on her de- 
serted decks. 

“ It is fate,” the voice of Justinia repeat- 
ed in his ear, and he awoke. 

A ship with shining sails, advancing 
gently, imperceptibly, on the sparkling wa- 
ters, became a fixed image in the young 
man’s thought. 


CHAPTER YI. 

TWO AMERICAN STUDENTS. 

Winter came with depressing days of 
rain, and robbed the loggia of its charm. 
Twilight musings were no longer possible ; 
leaning on the flower-decked parapet, and 
the casual interchange of thought between 
the neighbors meeting on this common 
ground, must be either suspended or ac- 
quire a new form. The disposition of the 
plants had been a matter of grave discus- 
sion. Justinia had wished those of John’s 
side carefully treasured in his rooms until 
the spring. 

“ I shall forget to water them,” objected 
the young man. 

“Annunciata can water them every day,” 
said Justinia. 

John was firm, however; the pretty col- 
lection must not be separated. How well 
they would adorn the little salon of Jus- 
tinia, where the sun shone in the window, 
and her piano formed the chief article of 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

furniture ! Accordingly the salon was con- 
verted into a blooming bower by means of 
John’s personal exertions, with the jasmine 
occupying a place of honor. The tiny or- 
ange-tree had become the object of Jus- 
tinia’s especial interest. 

“ Some day it will bear fruit. The first 
orange must be honored with a fete” she 
said, gayly. 

Thus they made their plans as if life was 
ever to flow on the same in this nook of 
the house-top. Justinia worked very hard 
at her task. She studied vocalization with 
one master, and the purest Tuscan language 
with another. Each of these masters would 
rank her, as a singer, at her true value in 
their own professional circles. The chances 
were that the professors themselves, or some 
fellow-musicians, would marry, if possible, 
a debutante of brilliant promise. Justinia 
had, as yet, escaped this snare, and the iso- 
lation of her surroundings had kept her 
from much theatrical association. She 
practised with feverish zeal. Some ele- 
ment of the concentrated anxiety to be 
read in her eyes found its way into the 
tones of her voice. Early and late her 
trills, roulades, scales, rung out across the 
loggia. The stage was her proper field, 
where her presence would be majestic. 
Her destiny was to become a public singer. 
What a glorious triumph it would be to 
return to America already stamped with 
success in Europe, and with those alluring 
offers held out by St. Petersburg to such 
nightingales in perspective ! How grace- 
ful should be her acknowledgment of the 
bounty of her benefactress ! Justinia must 
succeed ! There must be no possible flaw 
in her method, and no defect in her train- 
ing. Success would come from conscien- 
tious industry. 

The example of Justinia was salutary to 
John Winter. In presence of her anima- 
tion and absorption in her vocation, he 
gradually emerged from the reveries which 
had steeped his senses all the summer and 
autumn. He began to labor also, soberly 
and deliberately at first, and without the 
enthusiasm which had marked the com- 
mencement of his “America.” His first ef- 
forts were not vague and desultory as much 
as timid. He was trying his powers. The 
old sculptor’s eye brightened as he looked 
at him. 

The intercourse of the young man and 
woman so strangely brought together as 
neighbors became, if not more intimate, at 


152 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


least apparently so to the outside world. 
Justinia not only suffered John to escort 
her through the streets, but experienced a 
satisfaction in his presence. She was aware 
that no Italian or French girl would be al- 
lowed to walk out alone, without sustain- 
ing irreparable damage to reputation in 
the eyes of their parents and friends, but 
circumstances placed her in a different po- 
sition, if her natural independence had not 
asserted itself. 

Justinia went about alone during the 
day, after the manner of many English and 
American young ladies in Italy. When she 
passed the club of which the Prince del 
Giglio was a member, she was stared at and 
frequently openly criticised, in the belief, 
still cherished by the young nobility, that 
a lady with any claims to consideration 
does not appear on the street unless in a 
carriage. In her landau, woman is an ob- 
ject of admiration and homage, especially 
if her horses are spirited and her liveries 
handsome, to the jeunesse doree. On foot, 
be she traveller or pedestrian, from prefer- 
ence she may step out into the gutter of 
the principal thoroughfare of the city, 
while these gentlemen hold the pavement 
in undisputed possession, and she will af- 
ford material for comment, partaking of 
the nature of “ chaff.” 

Justinia Ritchie, without friends, accept- 
ing her residence in Florence as a term of 
probation, a stepping-stone to a radiant fut- 
ure, was frequently glad to find John Win- 
ter at her side — a muscular youth, with a 
cool and steady eye, of a type peculiarly 
respected by the jeunesse doree , and there- 
fore left unmolested. 

John showed his neighbor the art treas- 
ures of the city with the pride of a native, 
in acting as cicerone, and the ardor of a stu- 
dent. It is to be feared that they availed 
themselves often of the free entrance on 
Sunday to the galleries and museums, where 
they spent hours before great pictures and 
statues. Justinia would seat herself, fold 
her hands, and listen, while John strove to 
imbue her with his own theories concern- 
ing the artist and the work in question, as 
if liis very existence depended on her con- 
version to his point of view. The young 
sculptor appeared to advantage under these 
circumstances. He forgot himself ; his face 
became transfigured with emotion, and Jus- 
tinia respected him, if no deeper feeling was 
aroused. The Corsini Palace — which, with 
its rival in attractiveness, the Torrigiani, on 


the opposite bank of the Arno, possesses the 
most sunny and charming reminiscences ol 
all Florentine palaces— frequently received 
these comrades. At other times a breezy 
morning lured them to the meadows of the 
Cascine, to witness a review of troops, on 
such occasions as the birthday of the King. 

The convenances of foreign society were 
still further set at defiance. John escorted 
Justinia out in the evening to those con- 
certs and operas which her master deem- 
ed it desirable for her to attend, and such 
entertainments became marvellous to the 
young man, owing to his company. He 
experienced a new sense pf pride and self- 
respect in being thus appointed protector 
of his neighbor. His chief pleasure con- 
sisted in watching her face, rendered brill- 
iant by lights, now smiling at the render- 
ing of some favorite aria, and now frowning 
sharply at a discord. Justinia was a mu- 
sician. The susceptibilities of her nature 
he could not fathom, but he could in some 
measure shield them. Her choice of vo- 
cation still troubled him. He had no right 
to interfere. John Winter waited with the 
patience which had ever been his most 
marked trait of character. Their position 
seemed to him too sweet and harmonious 
not to be natural. He knew nothing of 
etiquette as prescribed by the city of his 
adoption, and he would have attached 
very little importance to it had he been 
enlightened. 

Thus the winter came and went rapidly. 
John Winter carried with him during the 
day a picture of the little salon filled with 
plants, and a charming central figure of Jus- 
tinia, in her long black robe, seated at the 
piano. 

Sometimes he fancied an expression of 
weariness on the face of his neighbor, and 
was smitten with fear that he intruded too 
often on her evenijigs. Then he would ab- 
sent himself for a week, until a little note 
from Justinia recalled him, perhaps with 
an intimation that she desired his escort 
to the Pergola or Pagliano theatres. The 
little salon was more attractive than ever 
after such weeks of cruel separation, and 
John found much to impart — more than 
could be deemed possible after a delay of 
seven days. 

One morning the old sculptor said, slyly, 

“ I saw you with a very pretty girl yes- 
terday. Who is she ?” 

John reddened to the roots of his hair, 
and became more absorbed in his task. 


153 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

“Miss Justinia Ritchie,” he replied. 

“Have you known her long?” pursued 
Abraham Blackwood, with a twinkle in his 
eye. 

“ Oh yes — for a long time.” 

“Well, I have no objections to offer if she 
is a good, honest girl,” said the old sculptor. 

“ There need be no congratulations,” said 
John, stiffly. 

Abraham Blackwood chuckled softly be- 
neath his beard. 

The next time his pupil met Justinia he 
looked at her so long and intently that she 
averted her face with an instinct of em- 
barrassment. 

“He is falling in love with me,” she 
thought. 

Certainly the conscience of Justinia 
Ritchie was not blameless ; she had played 
a little with John Winter, because he was 
a young man, and brought into daily inter- 
course with herself. However, she decided 
to be more reserved in the future, warned 
by an expression of his gray eyes. Smiles, 
arch glances, and gay badinage in the 
drawing-room of society may prove harm- 
less arrows, the amusement of the hour. 
Such coquetries assume a different aspect 
on the house-top, and are not equally per- 
missible to grave students of art with a 
future to 'win. Justinia Ritchie did not 
wish John Winter to fall in love with her. 
She glanced in her little mirror that night, 
and assured herself of this sentiment, with 
a flush of anger and pride. She would be 
very kind to him, in return for all the deli- 
cate attentions he lavished on her, but she 
would not permit herself to love him. 
John might be noble, sincere, and gen- 
erous — she believed in him — and yet their 
lives would be widely separated. It was 
best. 

The winter had brought occupation to 
Count Carmine Guigione in his sphere. He 
reaped the success of his two matches in 
one harvest, and the result pleased him. 
Andrea del Giglio had been given a for- 
eign heiress, thanks to his own exertions, 
and now the Contessina Olga had become 
the Baroness Blek. Further labors did not 
devolve on Count Guigione. Let every man 
manage his own household, without the in- 
terference even of a confidential friend of 
the family ; such was his creed. The count, 
more careful in dress, more juvenile in gait 
than ever, was free to hover about the car- 
riages of the Cascine, paying his compli- 
ments to the ladies, to dine frequently with 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

his new friend the baron, and to be useful 
to Mrs. Bayard. 

The season was one of brilliant festivity 
in the Giglio palace. Celia lived in a round 
of insignificant engagements, visiting, and 
receiving visits from her friends, assuming 
new dresses for each occasion, happy and 
dazzled by her position of princess and 
young wife. Little domestic ripples, such 
as her husband’s jealousy and her waiting 
for him all night, occur in the history of 
every married couple. She dismissed the 
thought with a smile and a sigh. 

The old princess remained much in her 
own apartment; and if her son exercised 
the espionage over his bride advocated by 
her, the surveillance was sufficiently unob- 
trusive not to wound the object. Celia had 
discovered a means of pleasing her mother- 
in-law. Before going to a ball she gathered 
up her shining draperies and presented her- 
self before the old princess for inspection. 
The next day she related to the older 
w T oman, whose day was over, the trifling 
gossip of the evening. The old princess 
received these attentions not only compla- 
cently, but with manifest interest. Mrs. 
Bayard observed all with satisfaction. Her 
darling child would win each heart. In 
time the palace would acknowledge Celia 
as sole mistress. The historical rooms were 
frequently lighted and decked with flowers. 
The American princess, who brought no new 
quartering to the Giglio shield — so sadly 
are times changed ! — held a weekly recep- 
tion in the chambers hung with cloth-of- 
gold, and the great sala , adorned with por- 
traits of glorious memory. 

Mrs. Bayard dwelt in the opposite apart- 
ment. The winter was scarcely less event- 
ful for herself than for her daughter. She 
was becoming accustomed to the marriage 
of Celia. The intolerable solitude of hours 
which separated her from her child required 
occupation. Mrs. Bayard was not a woman 
with resources of self-amusement. She went 
but to forget her loneliness, and she invited 
guests to her great rooms, in order to ren- 
der the absence of Celia less painful. The 
latter flitted across the ball-room at all 
hours for advice and confidential talk, and 
Mrs. Bayard was included in the august cir- 
cle of nobility to which Celia now belonged ; 
but she still found herself in a measure idle. 
She decided to invade that Anglo-American 
element from which the blunder of Mrs. 
General Jefferson had at first excluded her. 
The end was easily attained, and Mrs. Bay- 


154 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

ard found her only true enjoyment in sip- 
ping afternoon tea with the ladies who spoke 
her native tongue. Alas ! those portals of 
society which the vanished Nancy Bunce 
had been obliged to force by means of pa- 
tience and assurance were flung wide open 
at the approach of the mother of the Prin- 
cess del Giglio. Mrs. Bayard’s vanity was 
soothed by flattering attentions. She was 
aware of the value of her position, without 
being displeased by gentle reminders of her 
power. Ambitious mothers, of a season, saw 
a means of introducing their daughters to 
the entertainments of the American prin- 
cess. These fair girls, in turn, might capti- 
vate a prince. Mrs. Bayard received even 
more company than did Celia. Her pride 
led her to give rich banquets to distin- 
guished people — an innovation on the cus- 
tom of the old palace, where the sole fes- 
tivities of at least a century had been re- 
ceptions, with lemonade, cake, and wine. 
Mrs. Bayard was on very pleasant terms 
with her son-in-law. The prince treated 
her with a charming deference and courtesy 
of manner, which was balm to her heart, 
and frequently recalled her preferences after 
she had forgotten the expression of them. 
Mrs. Bayard was always deeply touched by 
a gift from him, bestowed in his graceful 
way. She forgot that she had given him 
the half of Neliemiah Methley’s fortune as 
Celia’s dot , w’hile much of her remaining 
income was diverted into the same chan- 
nel. 

The prince was much absorbed in the 
study of horse-flesh at this time. His equi- 
pages became the delight of Count Guigione 
and the loungers of the street. A fringe of 
crowd invariably gathered about the great 
entrance-gate to watch the Prince del Gig- 
lio emerge. He rode a superb thorough- 
bred of a morning, in the Cascine, and 
never appeared to better advantage than 
•when thus mounted. At noon he drove a 
light wagon with yellow wheels, and a pair 
of piebald horses, to his club. In the after- 
noon he either appeared seated beside his 
wife in her own carriage, or dashed along 
the boulevard with a four-in-hand team of 
not too mettlesome steeds. 

To be fashionable, according to the dic- 
tate of the world, was to be happy, in the 
estimation of the Prince del Giglio. 

French was the language of his house- 
hold, while the old princess still spoke Ital- 
ian. Another phase of his character was 
also apparent : no detail of the menage was 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

too trifling for his personal supervision ; his 
servants came to him for orders. 

Celia held out her hand playfully, in imi- 
tation of the street mendicants, and said, 

“ A little gold in my purse, for charity, 
my lord.” 

She received the caress, and the requisite 
sum afterward. 

Baron Blek had accepted an alliance with 
the Yallambroni family, as Count Guigione 
had anticipated. The baron had severed 
all relations with his past, in the determina- 
tion to establish a future. The project w r as 
dear to this ponderous man with the fat 
cheeks and glittering watch-chain. He de- 
cided to dwell in the Yallambroni palace, 
instead of one of those modern villas sug- 
gested by Count Guigione. 

Thus the rival mansion across the street 
remained in outward aspect the same, while 
receiving within every decoration the up- 
holsterer’s skill could devise and the bar- 
on’s purse supply. The Baroness Olga took 
her place in society as a married lady. She 
had reached the goal for which she had 
panted, and which had so nearly escaped 
her grasp. She loved excitement, dress, 
revelry, luxury, and all these were now in 
her possession. She looked across the street 
at the Giglio palace with sparkling eyes 
and a haughty smile. Now it was her turn ! 
She wore the most magnificent robes sent 
her by M. Worth into the historical rooms, 
in remembrance of the night when she had 
crouched at the window, with the rain fall- 
ing on her hair, to watch the dancers on the 
fete of the Kings. She kissed Celia on both 
cheeks when they met, and flirted with the 
prince, still mindful of a day when she 
wore limp muslin as a forlorn demoiselle. It 
pleased her to quit her own carriage in the 
Cascine, where she sat surrounded by gen- 
tlemen, and walk to that of the American 
princess, claiming a seat beside her for half 
an hour’s chat. This manoeuvre enabled 
the baroness either to sweep the dust with 
her laces and flounces, or to gather them 
up to display her high-heeled shoes and 
silk stockings. She made this amicable 
overture, usually, when a rapid glance had 
assured her that the color of her own cos- 
tume would render faded or unbecoming 
that of Celia. The Baroness Olga adored 
vivid hues— bronze-green and yellow — star- 
tling bonnets, and bizarre embroideries. No 
Parisian modiste need fear to send her a 
new dress, already stamped in the world’s 
capital w 7 itli the magic word “Exporta- 


155 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


tion.” The word “ fashion ” had only this 
significance to her : to be brilliant and ex- 
travagant in expenditure. The Prince del 
Giglio began to observe his former neglect- 
ed playfellow with some curiosity and in- 
creased respect. The Baroness Olga was 
happy, audacious, a little insolent. She be- 
came an acknowledged leader in her city. 

The baron wore an aspect of tranquil en- 
joyment. The pale face of the Countess 
YallambronL once more smiled. There 
were family parties, with Count Guigione 
present, in which the countess listened 
with pleased attention to the slow speech 
of her son-in-law, while Olga yawned be- 
hind her fan and tapped the floor with her 
foot, in response to some dancing measure 
running through her brain. 

Spring came, and with it the annual cel- 
ebration of the Colombo at the Duomo. 

The early morning had been wet, but 
toward noon the clouds assumed a less 
threatening aspect. For hours a crowd 
had gathered in the square, composed 
chiefly of the contadini — a crowd in mud- 
tinted garments, and with opaque complex- 
ions, displaying such evident interest in 
the success of the spectacle that a stranger 
shares the public excitement. In heathen 
tradition the car of Ceres, cleverly con- 
verted, like so many Pagan rites, into a re- 
ligious ceremony by the Church, and adapt- 
ed to the people, now appears in honor of 
the devout knight who rode backward on 
his horse to shelter the sacred torch kin- 
dled at Jerusalem. The little car is placed 
between the Cathedral and the Baptistery. 
Covered with bits of crimson paper, this 
car will become ignited at noon by means 
of a mechanical bird which flies from the 
altar of the Duomo, out of the door, and 
lights the bits of paper, then withdraws. 
Each year the same scene transpires, and 
no government has deemed it wise to de- 
prive the muddy-tinted contadino of this 
festa, from Lorenzo de’ Medici to Victor 
Emanuel. 

On this spring day John Winter and the 
old sculptor, obeying popular impulse, had 
left the studio to witness the lighting of 
the car. In the next street they met a 
lady with a roll of music in her hand. 
The lady was Justinia Ritchie. John col- 
ored with surprise and pleasure. He pre- 
sented her to the master. Justinia, look- 
ing very prettily in her Paris hat and tiny 
lace veil, bestowed her most winning smile 
on Abraham Blackwood. 


“You cannot pass through the crowd,” 
said John. 

“ Then I will wait and see the Colombo,” 
said Justinia. 

The three Americans stood on the curb- 
stone. Vehicles of every description paused 
as near the square as the gendarmes permit- 
ted, from street cabs with inquisitive tour- 
ists on the box, to country carts drawn by 
little Maremma ponies, their shaggy heads 
ornamented with bells and bits of fur. 

The Prince del Giglio drove slowly along 
in his wagon with the yellow wheels, and 
reined in the piebald horses. His glance 
fell languidly on the three foreigners stand- 
ing on the curb-stone, lingering longest on 
the bright and piquant face of Justinia. 
Evidently he did not recognize John Win- 
ter. 

The hour of noon approached ; the mul- 
titude waited, patient and good-humored. 
If the fireworks of the car exploded, Tus- 
cany would reap her harvests of corn, oil, 
and wine in abundance. Otherwise faces 
might well cloud with anxiety, and excla- 
mations circulate from lip to lip, such as 
“ Mio Dio !” or “ Misericordia !” It would 
be impossible to define how much or how 
little the people believed in the ceremony 
about to be enacted. The prince sat in 
his trotting - wagon, and occasionally ex- 
changed some jest with the citizens about 
him in as choice argot as that of the French 
nobleman of the ancien regime. Laughter 
greeted his remarks. Justinia could not 
understand a word of this Florentine argot; 
if the old sculptor and John were more 
proficient, they gave no sign. The noble- 
man’s sallies of wit were not lacking in 
flavor, however, amidst a populace notori- 
ous for a certain local ribaldry. 

The same crowd which loitered about 
the carriage of the prince has since resisted 
the efforts of its betters to curb the license 
of speech. Bishops have exhorted from 
the pulpit with warnings that misfortune 
must befall so profane a city, while several 
leading nobles have attempted to form a 
benevolent association to suppress public 
blasphemy by means of a fine. The last 
effort resulted in riot; benches were torn 
up and a clamor raised, certainly with a 
degree of justice, that bread should be first 
given to the starving, and manners cor- 
rected afterward. 

The great bell of the Duomo boomed a 
signal-note overhead, and was echoed by 
a jangling peal from every belfry of the 

ft 


156 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


town. On the first stroke of the bell the 
mechanical bird received its little taper at 
the altar, whizzed along the connecting 
cord out of the door, touched the car, and 
withdrew. The fireworks of the little car 
began to fizz and sputter; round after 
round of this mimic artillery went off; the 
bells clashed; the populace murmured; 
horses became restive, and ladies shrieked. 
The piebald steeds of the prince fretted 
and plunged at each explosion, threaten- 
ing all pedestrians. Justinia, on the curb- 
stone, watched the tongues of flame dart 
in jets from the structure, and the curling 
wreaths of smoke. As usual, John Winter 
observed her instead. Suddenly the pie- 
bald horses swerved aside, reared, and the 
next moment Justinia was beneath their 
feet. A stronger hand than that of the 
prince forced them back on their haunch- 
es. John Winter, grasping the head of each, 
confronted Celia’s husband with a flashing 
eye, and a face in which alarm and furious 
anger contended for mastery. The old 
sculptor lifted the girl, while John held 
the horses, and led her away, pale and faint 
but unhurt. When she was safe, John re- 
leased the curb of the nervous animals, and 
stepped back. 

“You should not drive such horses in a 
crowd,” he said, coolly, to the prince. 

The latter bowed, and replied in French, 

“Monsieur, consider your advice as ac- 
cepted.” 

Then he sent his groom to inquire for 
the welfare of the foreign lady. The 
groom soon returned, and the prince drove 
away. 

John hastened to join Justinia, who 
smiled feebly, and shuddered at the re- 
membrance of the plunging horses. The 
master decided that she had better be 
driven home, and hailed the first cab. 
John accompanied her. Arrived at the 
house, his solicitude acquired a new form. 

“ I might carry you up-stairs ; I am very 
strong,” he said, simply. 

“ Oh no,” replied Justinia, hastily. 

The cobbler at the door recalled John 
to give him a letter. The young man took 
it and followed Justinia. If she had es- 
caped harm beneath the horses’ hoofs, it 
was a miracle. He did not examine the 
envelope until the loggia was reached. 

“ It is your letter. I did not understand 
the cobbler,” he explained. 

Justinia looked at the missive. She 
flushed crimson, and then grew pale. 


“ I have not received a letter for such a 
long while,” she murmured. 

She dismissed John with a smile of grat- 
itude, and went in her own door. Reas- 
sured, the young sculptor returned to his 
studio. He experienced a swift culmina- 
tion of rage in the thought of the Prince 
del Giglio — the wrath of the pedestrian 
embodied in many phases of resentment at 
the mounted adversary. The prince care- 
lessly, perhaps insolently, had threatened 
the life of Justinia Ritchie with his chariot 
wheels. John Winter could not forgive 
him the injury, the insult. 

He passed Albert Dennis without seeing 
him, thus preoccupied in his own thoughts. 
Albert Dennis paused to look after him. 
This was the second affront received by 
him on the same day. He had encounter- 
ed the old sculptor in the street, and been 
ignored by him. He had bowed, removing 
his hat; the master’s sole response was to 
measure him from head to foot with a slow 
and withering glance. Now it was John 
Winter who failed to see him in passing. 
Success had brought him sufficient self- 
confidence to weigh this slight, and be ag- 
grieved, if disposed. His “America” had 
been executed in marble, and sent home. 
He did not take portraits ; he lacked the 
requisite patience, he confessed, with a 
pleasing humility, in self-deprecation. For 
the rest, his graceful idealizations found a 
ready sale. 

At tfie moment of meeting John Winter 
he was driving in the equipage of his 
dreams for the first time. This consisted 
of a light vehicle on two wheels, decorated 
with the semblance of a pantry window 
with closed blinds on each side, a large 
horse, and a groom seated behind with 
folded arms. Doubtless sheer envy kept 
John Winter from looking at him. 

The latter hastened home at night to in- 
quire for his neighbor. He met the old 
servant at the head of the stairs. 

“ Something has happened to the signo- 
rina,” she said, shaking her head. “ She 
remains in her chair, and will eat nothing.” 

“Then she was hurt!” cried John. 

Justinia appeared in the loggia, wrapped 
in a shawl. 

She looked at John wistfully; her face 
was haggard. Moved by her aspect of 
suffering, he implored her to have a physi- 
cian summoned. Justinia replied by a 
negative movement. Then she leaned her 
head against the wall, and burst into tears. 


157 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

John Winter was terrified. His experi- 
ence of feminine tears was exceedingly 
limited. 

“You are the only friend I possess here,” 
sobbed Justinia. “I am tempted to tell 
you all.” 

She dried her eyes, and explained to him 
the misfortune which overwhelmed her. 
The letter had informed her of the sudden 
death of her benefactress, whose property 
was contested by a number of relatives. 
No provision had been made for Justinia’s 
studies beyond the living interest of the 
moment. Fashionable ladies so lavishly 
flatter young genius sometimes, and so 
lightly forget their promises ! 

John Winter listened quietly. A steady 
light shone in his gray eyes, a smile hover- 
ed about his mouth. 

“ Justinia, let me protect and care for 
you,” he said, when she had finished. 
“ Will you marry me ?” 

Justinia drew one long, shuddering breath 
and was silent. The color dawned in her 
face again. She stood beside the loggia 
parapet and gazed before her, as she had 
done on the first evening of their meeting. 
It was Justinia’s first offer of marriage. 
Did she remember the veranda of the old 
home, where her brilliant father planned 
her future ? There was no disdain in her 
heart, only profound weariness and dejec- 
tion. 

“You are worthy of more than I can 
give, John Winter,” she said, calmly. “You 
are a good man. No other could have oc- 
cupied the same place to me here. Let 
us continue as we are; only I must find 
something to do.” 

“Yes,” said John, with whitening lips. 

He was not as much wounded by her 
rejection as amazed at his own audacity 
in the proposal. He vividly recalled the 
stately grandmother of Justinia. She had 
the right to expect more than he could 
ever give. 

Justinia turned and looked at him; she 
even laid her hand on his arm with a ca- 
ressing gesture. 

“ See, John,” she added, softly. “I have 
for you a true affection. You are like a 
brother to me.” 

He looked down on her, and took the 
hand, without reply. 

A slight cough startled them. Albert 
Dennis stood behind them, and chose this 
means of making his presence known. 

“Do not allow me to disturb you,” he 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

said, observing Justinia with the eye of a 
connoisseur. 

She bowed slightly and withdrew. 

Albert Dennis was in evening-dress, with 
a flower in his button-hole, and one yellow 
kid-glove held between the fingers of his 
left hand. John Winter’s surprise was so 
great that he scarcely returned the airy 
greeting of his visitor. 

“If you have anything to say to me, it 
had best be in my own quarters,” he said, 
in a dry, irritable voice. 

“ Sly dog !” murmured Albert Dennis, 
with a wink of intelligence, as he followed 
John across the loggia. 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” retorted 
his host, angrily. 

“ Tra, la, la ! Of course not,” hummed 
Albert, peering about the chamber. 

“ Pray have done with such nonsense, 
and explain the object of your visit,” said 
John, impatiently. 

Albert Dennis reflected a moment, then 
assumed his injured manner. There had 
been a time when his old comrade would 
not have put a question thus curtly. Why, 
he recalled having assisted at John’s toilet, 
in this very room, at til zfete of the Baptist. 

John smiled, a trifle grimly, at the remi- 
niscence. 

“ I suppose I shall not be believed if I 
state that my visit has no deeper motive 
than good-will,” pursued Albert, looking 
at his own boot, which was small, and well- 
fitted to a symmetrical foot. “ I met the 
master to-day, and he cut me dead. What 
right had he to do that ?” 

John’s lip curled : he remained silent. 

The volatile nature of Albert Dennis was 
assuming a phase not unusual with such 
temperaments. He had succeeded, but he 
could not refrain from meddling with com- 
bustible materials. This was an element of 
his conceit. He now desired to force the 
old sculptor and John Winter to the wall 
by an appearance of frank innocence, and 
ascertain by this means the extent of their 
convictions, and how far they had been im- 
parted to others. He had not received a 
second order for a statue. He ascribed 
this circumstance to the influence of Abra- 
ham Blackwood or John. The former he 
dared not attack, the latter he found vul- 
nerable in an unexpected way. 

“You must demand explanations of the 
master,” said John. 

Albert Dennis wheeled about suddenly. 

“ Who is your pretty neighbor ? How 


158 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

long have you succeeded in keeping her 
safely hidden away up here ?” 

John Winter grew white with indigna- 
tion. He arose, and seized his guest by the 
collar. 

“Would you kill a man for asking a 
simple question ?” panted Albert, a little 
frightened, and releasing himself as soon 
as w 7 as practicable from a powerful hand, 
which disarranged his white cravat. 

“How dare you mention my neighbor, 
a lady, in that fashion ?” cried John, glar- 
ing at him. 

Albert Dennis edged away to the door. 

“ My call has proved a failure, I perceive,” 
he said. 

Then he added, with a malicious laugh, 

“The position of your fair neighbor 
seems to me a little equivocal. However, 
I will not mention her, if you agree not to 
make your own jealousy of my talents and 
success too apparent to the public. Good- 
night.” 

Next morning Justinia received a note 
from John, in which he stated that he 
knew an old gentleman, an amateur in 
music, who made it an object in life to 
assist young singers. He w*ould apply to 
him in her behalf, if she desired it. Jus- 
tinia hastened to express her . gratitude, 
and accept the offer. She stipulated that 
the patron of young singers should permit 
her to pay him from her first earnings on 
the stage. 

John Winter was this patron of art. He 
had decided to assume the character, in 
the watches of the night succeeding Albert 
Dennis’s visit, and he w T as prepared to labor 
diligently to meet this fresh requirement 
on his slender purse. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE BIRTH OF A PRINCELING. 

A son was born in the Giglio palace. 
The old princess deserted her more se- 
cluded apartment to preside in the histor- 
ical rooms, over the birth of a grandchild. 
Possibly the revival of the past glory of 
the family, thus linked with the future, 
moved her to sympathy with the prefer- 
ence of Celia in inhabiting the historical 
rooms. Another Giglio was born in the 
sombre nuptial chamber, with its red hang- 
ings and crooked little doors concealed 
in the angles of wall. 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

The “Three Fates” of Michael Angelo re- 
vealed their grim faces in the shadow; and, 
opposite, the golden-liaired “ Madonna del 
Cordellino” of Raphael smiled down on 
the children at her knee. In the tranquil, 
pensive contemplation of the Madonna 
there was also an element of resignation 
which rendered her akin to the brooding 
Fates. One read in the soft girlish lin- 
eaments that there was no escape from in- 
evitable suffering in life — she who was 
later represented as the Mother of Sor- 
rows. 

The old princess arranged everything. 
Her manner was not only decided, but 
even aggressive in dictation. Celia held 
the hand of her own mother, however. 
Mrs. Bayard, the other grandmother, found 
herself unexpectedly pushed to the wall; 
her own advice was unheeded ; every one 
obeyed the old princess. Mrs. Bayard was 
too much agitated to resist; she never 
thought of asserting her rights in the joy 
of finding Celia safe, and herself the grand- 
mother of a princeling. As for Celia, the 
proud and happy young mother, she was 
not obliged to apologize to the old princess 
for having given birth to a girl instead of 
a son and heir, as did the daughter-in-law 
of a De Rohan not many years ago. She 
contemplated the Madonna more frequent- 
ly than the Fates during the hours of con- 
valescence, although she would not suffer 
the removal of the latter picture. 

The prince received the congratulations 
of his friends with the pride of an Italian, 
of any class, in becoming a father. These 
congratulations were characterized by a 
naevete and effusiveness which embarrass- 
ed Celia, and brought the warm color fre- 
quently to the cheeks of her mother. The 
old princess accepted the requisite homage 
with no change of complexion. Soon a 
stout and handsome nurse received the 
tiny princeling in her strong arms. She 
appeared from her native hills by order of 
the old princess, who anticipated the ac- 
quiescence of Celia as a matter of course 
in the affair. Ladies of any position never 
take care of their own children. Indeed, 
had Celia’s child been of less rank, her 
mother-in-law, as an Italian, wmild have in- 
sisted on his being banished to the coun- 
try and the care of a contadina during the 
first year of tender infancy ; after which the 
little Christian might return to share the 
family dinner, before nature had endowed 
him with a single tooth in his head. No 


159 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

misgivings as to the national system of 
rearing children had ever disturbed the 
old Princess del Giglio ; she was even pre- 
pared to defend it vigorously against any 
foreign infringement. 

Celia pouted a little, but eventually yield- 
ed. She experienced a pang of jealousy 
in beholding her son repose on the broad 
breast of the handsome nurse, until she 
became accustomed to the Contemplation. 
In the end she transferred a portion of her 
maternal pride to the adornment of the 
bonne, whose caps bloomed with ribbons 
of blue and rose-color, and whose muslin 
aprons became marvels of embroidery. 

The latent Giglio, a few days after birth, 
was borne to the Baptistery to receive the 
sacred rite bestowed here on every Floren- 
tine. The priest, with his attendant aco- 
lytes, took the little bundle of blankets, 
which represented another atom of human- 
ity at the font, and murmured rapidly the 
requisite service of baptism. Nothing was 
lacking to enroll this princeling within the 
fold. The big finger of the priest present- 
ed the salt to the wee rosy mouth, and the 
wail of the infant nobleman sounded fee- 
bly beneath that beautiful dome, where the 
angels and martyrs and demons of the mo- 
saics looked down from their height. St. 
John, in marble, guarded the main altar, 
while the Byzantine Christ, redeemer of 
men, gazed with great solemn eyes on the 
group about the font. 

Another Andrea was added to the list. 
Celia had forgotten her repugnance to the 
portrait, or had set aside prejudice in favor 
of family pride. The Prince del Giglio, 
who never entered a church from one year’s 
end to another, unless to follow a lady to a 
musical mass at the S. S. Annunziata, would 
have paled with superstitious dread at the 
suggestion of omitting this baptism of his 
child at the shrine of St. John. Custom 
ordained such matters : no Giglio had 
lived and died unbaptized. 

One warm morning, when all nature had 
been refreshed by heavy rain during the 
night, the great gate of the Giglio palace 
opened, and a basket-carriage emerged into 
the narrow street. The pedestrians turned 
to observe the equipage as it passed. There 
was an aspect of holiday gayety about the 
little phaeton drawn by ponies in harmo- 
ny with the day, which was a festa for all 
Florence. Mrs. Bayard and Celia occupied 
the back seat ; opposite sat the large bonne, 
resplendent in a crimson dress and rib- 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

I bons, with great gold ear-rings, and pins in 
her hair, holding the slumbering princeling 
in her arms. Celia drove out for the first 
time with her child on this joyous summer 
morning. Her glance rested complacently 
on the heap of laces and blue silk envelop- 
ing the little being before her. The clam- 
or of the bells, ever ready to chime for the 
perpetual round of Florence fete days, the 
clear sky, the warm wind from the country, 
and the flowers massed in a rainbow of 
colors about the corners of the Palazzi Ric- 
cardo and Strozzi, seemed each to do honor 
to the advent of the Principino del Giglio 
in the eyes of the young mother. 

The festival in progress was that of the 
Grillo. As early as five o’clock that morn- 
ing crowds had hastened along the Arno 
bank to the Cascine — for what ceremo- 
nial ? To catch grasshoppers in the mea- 
dows, and imprison them in tiny wicker- 
cages! The Florentines have thus cele- 
brated the day since the most remote date ; 
and as the grillo is an eminently classical 
insect, Pagan ancestors may have also en- 
joyed the same pastime. The writer once 
inquired of a Florentine gentleman the ori- 
gin of this strange custom, and he was un- 
able to explain. 

“ Do they not search for the grillo , on 
the same day, in your own land ?” he in- 
quired, much puzzled. 

In the fresh morning the Cascine wore 
its most lovely aspect as the phaeton of 
the American princess drove through the 
gate. The trees were clothed in tender fo- 
liage, and the grass of the meadows gem- 
med with the recent rains. Groups of 
boys and young men, who had already 
reaped a harvest of grasshoppers, were 
gathered about the paths, either absorbed 
in betting on the leaping capacities of two 
captives, or incarcerating their victims in 
the little wicker-cages for sale. 

The grillo has a very droll aspect in his 
miniature house ; he gazes out through the 
bars hopelessly, like a bird. If he is of a 
cheerful, not to say philosophical, disposi- 
tion, he will sing in the future abode to 
which he is transported, and thus bring 
good fortune to the house, after the fashion 
of his relative, the cricket, on the hearth. 

Children of all ages were still searching 
zealously for the prizes, wading through 
the deep grass. Celia made a playful gest- 
ure, as if introducing her son to his future 
world. 

“Oh, mamma, have you forgotten the 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


100 

spring day when we drove here, and I had 
filled the carriage with flowers ?” she said. 

“You saw Andrea for the first time on 
that day,” replied Mrs. Bayard. 

“ I had seen him before,” said Celia, with 
a demure smile. “ Girls are dreadfully de- 
ceitful, dear mamma.” 

“ I remember the baroness on that day 
also,” pursued Mrs. Bayard. “ She was 
badly dressed in light blue, which made 
her look unusually sallow. I thought her 
a very plain girl. How much she has im- 
proved since her marriage !” 

“Y-e-s,” assented Celia, dubiously. “I 
do not like her — truly, mamma. She ca- 
resses me too much, and all the while there 
is an expression in her black eyes as if she 
were making fun of me.” 

Mrs. Bayard smiled with a lofty indul- 
gence. 

“ Making fun of you, my dearest — the 
Princess del Giglio ?” 

The handsome bonne, her cheeks like 
ripened peaches, sat opposite, holding her 
charge and gazing at the ladies, who spoke 
an unknown tongue, with her calm dark 
eyes, which were like those of a ruminating 
animal. 

Three equestrians approached the phae- 
ton as it paused. The lady in an English 
riding-habit, on a fine horse, was the Bar- 
oness Olga, the gentleman on her left the 
baron, and on her right the Prince del 
Giglio. Celia smiled a response behind 
her tulle veil to the greetings of the bar- 
oness. The baron dismounted, gave his 
horse to his groom, and approached the 
carriage. Mrs. Bayard and Celia held out 
their hands to him : both of them liked 
the baron. Mrs. Bayard did not find his 
conversation dull any more than did the 
gentle Countess Vallambroni, his mother- 
in-law, while Celia accepted his attentions 
with a good grace. The baron talked with 
Mrs. Bayard of her own country. He had 
seen much of the world, and usually dis- 
covered the topics of most interest to the 
people he encountered. 

He now approached to admire the 
princeling, which he achieved with com- 
mendable success, to the entire satisfaction 
of the ladies. The young father threaten- 
ed his son with his riding -whip. The 
baby blinked vaguely, and with no respon- 
sive smile. 

“ He is stupid,” said the prince, in a teas-, 
ing tone. “He knows nobody but Mari- 
anna.” 


“ I am his foster-mother,” said Marianna, 
smiling radiantly. 

Celia was indignant. 

“ He is not stupid at all !” she said. 
“ Baby recognized you at once, Andrea.” 

The Baroness Olga laughed ; and as her 
horse was restive, she rode away along 
the avenue, followed by the prince. Celia 
looked after them, a trifle piqued. The 
baron gravely selected a grillo in its cage, 
which he bought of a boy who already 
had a string of cages hung over his shoul- 
der, and presented it, to preside at the 
hearth of the princeling. 

“ May it bring you good-luck, my little 
man,” he said, in English. 

Mrs. Bayard was delighted. Celia’s 
cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled. 
Had the Baroness Olga, in her becoming 
hat, ridden here every morning for mouths 
and met the prince? He had never men- 
tioned the circumstance. The discovery 
perplexed her, but she was not at all jealous, 
she assured herself. She would ride also. 

“ Blonde hair escaping from an Amazon 
hat is more beautiful than black,” she 
thought. 

The Baroness Olga rode at a rapid pace 
along the avenue for a time, then gradual- 
ly slackened her speed. She turned, and 
glanced at the prince with slightly ele- 
vated eyebrows. 

“I thought the groom had followed 
me,” she said, negligently. 

“ The groom is holding your husband’s 
horse,” he replied. 

“What! and you are not adoring the 
infant also ?” said the baroness, with a peal 
of laughter. 

The prince smoothed his mustache plac- 
idly, and glanced at his stirrup. 

“ I am wicked this morning ; I wish to 
do something rash,” said the baroness, her 
face glowing with animation. “One be- 
comes tired of being always good. What 
shall it be ? To leap that hedge or ditch ? 
No, let us try this path, and cross to the 
other avenue.” 

She turned aside into one of those se- 
cluded paths skirting lofty trees, and with 
a tangled growth of vines below, which 
seem the depths of a wood rather than a 
portion of a city park. The prince follow- 
ed her. 

“What a charming spot for lovers I” said 
the baroness, in a mocking tone. “If I 
ever possess one, he shall fall on his knees 
here and declare his passion.” 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

The prince made a movement as if to de- 
scend ofrom his horse and assume the req- 
uisite position. Olga checked him laugh- 
ingly, by stretching out her hand. He 
took the hand and kissed it. 

“ Take care ! he is of a jealous disposi- 
tion,” she said, glancing swiftly around. 

“ Unhappy man !” retorted the prince^ in 
the same tone of badinage. 

Then they cantered back to the carriage 
in high spirits. 

“ You do not give your son a very warm 
Welcome when he first drives out,” said 
Celia, in a tone of reproach. 

“The horses would not remain quiet,” 
replied the prince. 

The baron rode home beside his wife. 

“There is a charming young wife,” he 
said, meditatively. “ She is amiable, good, 
and very beautiful.” 

“ You mean the Princess del Giglio?” in- 
quired Olga, sharply. 

“ Yes. You will do well to imitate her,” 
replied her husband, in his guttural tones. 

“ I imitate her I” exclaimed the baroness. 

She struck her horse a little blow across 
the neck, then reined in the impatient ani- 
mal, as if curbing her own temper at the 
same time. 

“I find her admirable,” returned the 
baron. 

Silence ensued ,' the baroness bit her lip. 
The leather of the saddle creaked beneath 
the weight of the baron, responsive to the 
movements of the horse. Olga meditated. 
Praise of Celia from her husband was an 
insult to herself which she could not open- 
ly resent. She was even informed that she 
would do well to imitate the example of 
this insipid American princess ! Was there 
any weight of authority in the hand which 
indicated her own path of duty? She 
glanced at the stout, sedate man beside her 
whose right it was to exercise this authori- 
ty. Clever as she was, Olga did not feel 
quite sure of her ground with him. The 
husband she had married valued her illus- 
trious name and the old palace above oth- 
er things. He was a 'parvenu . He w r as in- 
dulgent, and allowed her an almost unlim- 
ited use of money, all for the same end, 
perhaps, of keeping the Vallambroni arms 
untarnished. He was not the obedient and 
doting slave of her caprices, however, and 
remained unmoved by tears. The baron 
had lived too long in the East to value 
feminine whims. The most congenial oc- 
cupation of the baroness’s leisure hours was 
11 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 161 

the perusal of French romances, in which 
the married woman invariably plays the 
role of heroine. She had already entered 
on her career as coquette. A climax of 
peril, and a strain of the nerves induced by 
sustaining a dangerous game, were delight- 
ful to her. She found a pleasure in mak- 
ing two men quarrel over her head, to the 
verge of challenging each other, by teasing 
and batfling these rivals. Ruin and death 
might wait at'her door, but she would still 
sport and mock. Frivolous to the verge 
of folly, and crafty to the verge of crime, 
the Baroness Olga masked a certain ele- 
ment of revenge beneath a surface of vani- 
ty, childish waywardness, and audacity. 
She was prepared to become the most dar- 
ing lady in her native city, and to study to 
maintain this reputation by means of daz- 
zling eccentricities of manner and conduct. 
The suggestion of the baron concerning 
the American princess had added the latest 
stimulus to her resolution. 

“I will strike you all through her!” 
thought this female Machiavelli, as she 
rode in her own gate. 

The princeling slept in the arms of the 
blooming Marianna, fanned by the warm 
breeze scented with flowers. The proud 
grandmother, Mrs. Bayard, held the tiny 
wicker- cage which formed the prison of 
the grillo. The insect occasionally thrust 
a feeler through the bars, as if reconnoi- 
tring the field cautiously to learn if it had 
found friends. 

“ Poor thing ! we will let it escape in 
the garden when we reach home,” said Ce- 
lia, smiling once more, now that the baron- 
ess had disappeared. 

The little phaeton, with its precious 
freight, returned through the city streets. 
The Principino del Giglio had taken his 
first airing beyond the garden since his 
baptism, beneath a clear sky and on a na- 
tional fete. The young mother was dis- 
posed to draw a favorable augury from 
these circumstances as she stooped to kiss 
the tiny face at the palace door. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

SUNDAY AFTERNOON IN THE BOBOLI 
GARDENS. 

The Boboli Gardens wore their most 
charming aspect of peaceful seclusion one 
autumn afternoon of the same year. The 


162 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE ; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


court of the king had taken flight to Rome, 
where the flag of United Italy had been 
planted on the Quirinal Palace. Florence, 
rendered ambitious beyond her own re- 
sources, either through becoming the capi- 
tal of the kingdom, or in emulation of Bar- 
on Haussman’s speculative building enter- 
prises, received a blow to her prosperity 
from which she may never recover. Victor 
Emanuel had uttered those memorable 
words : 

“ To Rome we have come, and in Rome 
we will remain.” 

The Boboli Gardens had relapsed into 
desertion, guarding the memories of other 
days— when the Medici courtiers met in the 
amphitheatre, ladies in ruff and brocade trav- 
ersed these shadowy alleys, and pet lap-dogs, 
adorned with rosettes and ribbons, were 
brought here at the bidding of effeminate 
masters. In the warm atmosphere of such 
an autumn day, when every slope affords 
an exquisite view of the city, who can fail 
to sympathize with the last Medici, Gian 
Gastone, in his love of the spot which led 
lnm, in dying, to set aside the description 
of heaven, of his confessor, with the assur- 
ance that the Boboli Gardens were quite 
beautiful enough for himself? 

On the afternoon of which we write the 
Prince del Giglio paused at the gate on 
the Via Romana, descended from his car- 
riage, and ordered his servant to drive back 
to the club. The prince was alone, and 
the hour four o’clock. Children played on 
the margin of the fountain where Oceanus 
occupies his flowery isle in the centre, 
while swans sail about the swimming ba- 
sin. The wide avenue., bordered with stat- 
ues and urns, leads up the lull from this 
point to terrace above terrace; and those 
charming paths which form tunnels of liv- 
ing verdure, excluding the sun, branch to 
the right and left. The prince, furtively 
consulting his watch, began to ascend the 
avenue in a leisurely manner. He tapped 
a mutilated Flora with his cane, and occa- 
sionally paused to look back. Finally he 
turned aside into the third path on the 
left, and traversed it to the farther ex- 
tremity. X 

Never could one of those Medici court 
ladies have selected a more secluded spot 
for a rendezvous. Evidently the prince 
awaited some person. At the end of the 
path, rendered shadowy by interlacing fo- 
liage, was a statue, once snowy white and 
beautiful, but now discolored by the rains 


' of many years. The boundary-wall behind 
it had been painted cleverly to present the 
illusion to the eye of a further stretch of 
embowering trees beyond the limits of the 
garden. The prince heard voices, and 
stooped to peep through the hedge. He 
perceived three of his friends, young men, 
who appeared to be rallying each other on 
some subject of mutual interest. The first 
impulse of the prince was to escape noise- 
lessly; then he paused: he heard a soft 
feminine laugh behind him. 

“ I am sorry to have detained you, but I 
lost my way near the Belvidere,” said the 
new-comer, in Italian. 

He turned quickly, and confronted Jus- 
tinia Ritchie. Their surprise was mutual. 
She recoiled a step, and blushed vividly. 
Justinia, always attired in black, and with 
her pretty Paris hat placed becomingly on 
her head, elicited a sentiment of involun- 
tary admiration on the part of the prince. 
That distinction of carriage and manner 
which charmed simple John Winter was 
also apparent to him. 

“I have made a mistake,” said Justinia, 
hastily. 

The prince raised his hat, and stood in a 
deferential attitude. Justinia turned, and 
walked away rapidly toward the entrance 
of the path. This stranger was handsome ; 
she had seen him before, but she was a lit- 
tle afraid of the insolent admiration she 
read in his eyes. She had expected to 
meet John Winter in this identical alley. 
The prince looked after her. The situa- 
tion seemed to him piquant, and w T as ren- 
dered doubly so . by the vicinity of his 
friends. He darted after Justinia, and 
placed himself in her path. The manoeu- 
vre confirmed her alarm. She grew pale, 
and paused, collecting all her energies in 
the effort to appear unconcerned. 

“ Madame,” began the prince, in French. 
“ I beg of you to listen to me one moment. 
You are cruel ! I may never be able to 
address you again. If an intuition guid- 
ed me to a spot where I could gaze for a 
moment on your beautiful face, can I be 
blamed for availing myself of the opportu- 
nity ?” 

“You knew I would come here?” mur- 
mured Justinia, in profound surprise. 

“ Yes, I knew it! Punish me if you 
will,” 

The prince still held his hat in his hand, 
and bent his head toward the girl, whose 
dark eyes were, raised to his face in per- 


1G3 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

plexity and doubt. The shadowy path 
had received its fitting occupants — a pair 
of lovers looking into each other’s eyes. 

At this moment the three young men 
appeared. The prince did not seem to 
perceive them, while Justinia started and 
glanced around. Pride subdued vanity in 
her heart. 

“ If it is true that you came here to see 
me, never repeat the intrusion,” she said, 
haughtily, and moved away. 

The three young men observed her sig- 
nificantly as she approached and passed 
them. One of them made a movement as 
if to bar her progress and accost her. Jus- 
tinia was alone, handsome, and unprotect- 
ed. What greater incentive to familiarity 
could be offered them ? Their look stung 
Justinia like the blows of a whip ; her eyes 
flashed, her lip quivered. This girl -was 
studying for the stage ! The prince joined 
his friends. 

“ You here to-day?” cried one. 

“ The reason is apparent enough,” said a 
second. 

“Who is she, caro mioV' > inquired the 
third. 

“ That is my affair,” replied the prince, 
with a conceited smile. 

“Where does she live?” urged the three, 
gazing after Justinia, who was descending 
the hill in the direction of the Via Romana 
gate. 

“ That also is my affair, ” said the prince, 
with provoking coolness. 

“The bird has not yet flown; we will 
follow, and see where she lives, since An- 
drea is so reticent,” said one young man, 
laughing. “Will you join us in the pur- 
suit, caro amico , or have you other engage- 
ments in the Boboli Gardens this after- 
noon ?” 

The trio again exchanged glances, and 
burst into laughter. 

“ I will go with you, if only to see fair- 
play. I have nothing to detain me now,” 
said the prince, taking the arm of one of 
his friends, and preparing to move away at 
an indolent pace. 

“Giorgio and Salvator, hasten!” cried 
this companion. “You may lose sight of 
the lady, and Andrea will detain me, if 
possible, by his slowness. Fly ! fly !” 

The group emerged into the street just 
as Justinia’s black-robed form was vanish- 
ing in the direction of the river. They 
followed her, the Prince del Giglio an ap- 
parently unwilling captive in their midst, i 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

At four o’clock a carriage containing 
Mrs. Bayard and Celia had paused at the 
other gate of the Boboli Gardens, beside 
the Pitti Palace. The prince had excused 
himself from the usual Sunday drive in the 
Cascine with his Tvife, because of an en- 
gagement to drive out to a villa and in- 
spect a new horse which was offered for 
sale. Celia had demurred, objecting to the 
arrangement. She w T as disposed to be ex- 
acting, and desired always to receive atten- 
tions from her husband, which had been 
showered upon her in the honey-moon. 

Resigning herself to the absence of the 
prince, at length, she consented to accom- 
pany her mother instead. 

“ I am weary of the usual drive ; let us 
ramble in the Boboli Gardens, mamma,” 
she urged, and Mrs. Bayard readily assented. 

The ladies entered the gardens, strolling 
past the grotto guarded by Apollo and 
Ceres, and followed the first path at ran- 
dom. A high wall, gray and moss-grown, 
on the left, was covered w T ith a vine vivid- 
ly scarlet in the autumn tints ; the sunshine 
glistened on the glossy leaves of the trees. 
Gaining the terrace above the amphithea- 
tre, Mrs. Bayard pleaded fatigue, and seat- 
ed herself on a stone bench. Celia stood 
beside her mother, and the quiet charm of 
the spot inspired both to exclaim, 

“ How lovely !” 

At their feet was the amphitheatre, with 
its carpet of grass, its ranges of stone seats, 
the Egyptian obelisk, and great red marble 
basin of the centre. Beyond was the pal- 
ace, now closed and deserted, with a line 
of city roofs visible in the distance — the 
dome of the Cathedral rising like a purple 
bulb in the warm atmosphere. Behind 
them was the fountain with the green Nep- 
tune and a perspective of flower parterres, 
flights of steps and terraces, terminating in 
the little Casino, and the height of Belvi- 
dere, where a sentinel paced the rampart. 
The scent of dried leaves and fading flow- 
ers pervaded the breeze ; occasionally the 
twitter of a bird and the laughter of a 
child broke the drowsy stillness of the 
place. 

Mrs. Bayard removed her glove slowly 
to gather a fern, and a glittering object 
flashed in the air, rolling down into the 
amphitheatre. 

“I have lost my ring!” she exclaimed, 
holding out her empty glove. 

At four o’clock John Winter had sought 
the Boboli Gardens to keep an appoint- 


164 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE ; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


ment with his neighbor, Justinia Ritchie. 
There was nothing clandestine in this meet- 
ing, because John w T ould have been proud 
to escort Justinia from their door on the 
afternoon ramble. A commission of the 
old sculptor’s had taken him into the coun- 
try that morning, and he had feared a tar- 
dy return. Justinia had agreed to meet 
him in the alley where the Prince del Gig- 
lio waited, and afterward to walk up on the 
Colli at sunset. 

John entered the gate by the Pitti Pal- 
ace just as Mrs. Bayard’s carriage turned 
to drive away. He paused at the fountain 
within the gate, the jet of clear water gush- 
ing out of the wall, and formed a cup of 
his hand, to drink like the people. He 
was one of the people. Mrs. Bayard and 
Celia had disappeared. John owned no 
watch save that timepiece of instinct in 
meeting Justinia — his own heart. He fear- 
ed that he was late. Hastening up the 
path, he was traversing the space before 
Neptune in his basin, when he heard his 
name called. 

“ Oh, Mr. Winter, pray come to our as- 
sistance !” 

It was the voice of the American prin- 
cess. John turned, lifted his hat, and ap- 
proached the two ladies. The situation 
was explained to him : Mrs. Bayard, in re- 
moving her glove to gather a delicate fern, 
had lost a valuable diamond solitaire ring. 
Both were in the act of searching, some- 
what aimlessly, poking with the ivory tips 
of their lace parasols among the stones and 
moss. 

“If you would be so kind as to look 
down there, Mr. Winter,” said Mrs. Bayard. 

John complied. He descended from ledge 
to ledge of the amphitheatre, his keen eye 
scanning the space indicated by Mrs. Bay- 
ard as the exact spot where the ring fell. 
He thought of Justinia, and the delay occa- 
sioned by these ladies. He would find the 
ring in a few moments, and then hasten on. 

As it happened, at the expiration of half 
an hour John Winter still knelt, poking 
among the moss and peering into fissures 
for the missing ring, which defied his 
search. 

At a quarter to four o’clock on this fine 
Sunday the Baroness Olga stood before 
her mirror for a final glance at her toilet. 
She was attired in maize-colored silk and 
crimson velvet ; and a lace veil, fastened at 
the back of her head with a jewelled pin, 
did not conceal the fact that she was high- 

O 


ly rouged. The baroness, eager to be beau- 
tiful, already dealt much in cosmetics. 

The baron entered, to the surprise of his 
wife. He also had driven out to a villa, 
with Count Guigione, which he meditated 
purchasing. Olga had suggested the hour 
and the day, while appearing uninterested 
in the matter. 

“I have returned in time to escort you 
to the Cascine,” said the baron. 

Then he selected a fresh pair of gloves, 
and took his place in the carriage beside 
the maize-tinted dress, with its crimson-vel- 
vet trimmings, which imparted to the wear- 
er something of the rich beauty of the Ital- 
ian autumn. Olga was in a most amiable 
and complaisant mood ; a perpetual smile 
played about her red lips. En route for 
the Cascine a thought occurred to her. 

“ Let us visit the Boboli Gardens first !” 
she exclaimed. 

Accordingly her carriage stopped at the 
entrance by the Pitti Palace at a few min- 
utes past four. A young man, flushed by 
rapid walking, had just paused to refresh 
himself at the jet of water near the gate, 
before hastening on in advance of these 
new arrivals. The Baroness Olga gathered 
up her train negligently, and took the arm 
of her husband. The situation amused 
her, and on second thoughts the return of 
the baron appeared opportune. When she 
was in Paris, the Vallambroni bride had 
seen performed, at the Theatre Frangais, 
Octave Feuillet’s Sphinx. This heroine 
had fascinated the imagination of the fair 
Florentine. To play with many lovers, to 
charm and astonish one’s world by audaci- 
ty, to be considered very giddy and per- 
haps a little wicked, seemed to her life. 
She had invited the three young men, as 
well as the Prince del Giglio, to meet her 
in the Boboli Gardens on this afternoon. 
To each she had given a different place of 
rendezvous, enjoying in advance their cha- 
grin if they encountered each other. Per- 
haps a duel would result, and a duel would 
add that final lustre requisite to her own 
reputation of married coquette. 

The arrival of her husband placed a fresh 
weapon in her hand; she would appear as 
the picture of conjugal felicity on the bar- 
on’s arm, and witness their disappointment. 
Had not the Sphinx played in the same ad- 
mirable manner with her suitors, by send- 
ing them to meet each other in the park 
by moonlight, while she, relieved of their 
espionage, had an interview wdth a favor- 


165 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

ite ? Profound sympathy with the Sphinx 
to the end of her career inspired the Bar- 
oness Olga. She beheld sublime heroism 
in the death of her favorite. What more 
tragic and appropriate than to sip the poi- 
son concealed in a ring, and stiffen in the 
agonies of strychnine while the curtain de- 
scends ? 

The baron observed nothing. Olga chat- 
ted gayly on a variety of topics, to which 
he replied in monosyllables. Her hilarity 
nearly overcame her several times. She 
was on the verge of arousing his suspicions 
by her irrepressible mirth. Her glance 
sought the wide avenues and interrogated 
the narrow paths. Had the young men 
met ? Had raillery warmed to quarrelling ? 
Were they at the moment looking down 
upon her from some sheltered parapet, 
hanging on the arm of her husband ? In 
view of this possibility she redoubled her 
smiles, and became even more arch, spright- 
ly, and caressing in speech. The baron re- 
garded her with admiration, and smiled. 

“ She wishes something,” he reflected. 

“ What children these women are ! They 
differ very little from their sisters of the 
East.” 

Suddenly Olga paused, and uttered an 
involuntary exclamation. She saw Mrs. 
Bayard and Celia above the amphitheatre. 
Why had they come here to-day? She 
hesitated a moment. Would the encoun- 
ter prove awkward if the Prince del Giglio 
joined the party ? Did Celia suspect any- 
thing? Her indecision was due to the 
fear of attracting the baron’s attention, 
while willing to arouse the jealousy of 
Celia. 

The first impulse of the Baroness Olga, 
as a married lady, had been to bring An- 
drea del Giglio to her feet publicly, so that 
all the w T orld might behold her triumph. 
Had she not suffered enough in her slight- 
ed girlhood? Did she not owe such re- 
venge to the American who had ruthlessly 
intruded, with her wealth and her beauty, 
on her own life? All the same, instinct 
taught her it was best not to present this 
view of the matter to the baron. A senti- 
ment which may flow along on the surface 
of daily life is tame and insipid for lack of 
opposition ; a sentiment cherished in dark- 
ness, requiring stealthy nourishment and 
crooked dealing, ever on the verge of great 
risk in exposure — this possesses a true 
charm. 

Such w T as the reasoning of the Baroness 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

Olga, in her maize-colored dress, with rouge 
on her cheeks beneath the lace veil, and 
her black eyes very bright with excite- 
ment. 

The baron set doubt at rest. Already 
he had waved his hand to the ladies, and 
prepared to join them. 

“Our friends have also chosen the Bo- 
boli Garden this afternoon,” he said. 

“The weather is so fine,” replied his 
wife. 

Then she greeted Celia with two out- 
stretched hands, covered with cream-color- 
ed gloves, and seated herself on the bench, 
full of sympathy for the loss of the ring. 
The baron joined John Winter in the 
search, while Mrs. Bayard hovered near, 
anxiously inspecting their task. The two 
younger women remained side by side. 
They met too often in the routine of their 
lives to have much conversation. The 
smile of suppressed fun still hovered about 
the full red lips of the baroness. 

Where were her cavaliers ? 

She wished the prince would appear, if 
only to astonish his wife, and be in turn 
surprised. It pleased the baroness to keep 
herself informed of every event transpiring 
in the opposite palace. She had chosen 
Theresa, Celia’s own maid, for the post of 
traitor. She would have no other servant. 
Theresa, frightened yet not daring to diso- 
bey, took the position after consulting her 
lover, an enterprising street cocker. Many 
paper bills found their way into the little 
maid’s pocket, destined some time to swell 
her dowry. Theresa wept, but the cocker 
took a philosophical view of the case. The 
rivalry of these two great ladies would 
prove a harvest to her. She could be bi- 
assed by loving intensely, or hating with 
equal fervor — no medium course was 
possible to her. Little Theresa could be 
scrupulously honest in taking care of 
Celia’s wardrobe, but she could not be up- 
right in moral rectitude if her life had 
depended on it. Therefore she dried her 
eyes, told the Baroness Olga all she wished 
to know, and was additionally caressing in 
manner to Mrs. Bayard and Celia afterward. 
The former frequently remarked, 

“ How devoted Theresa is to you, Celia ! 
She can never forget that you took her 
from the drudgery of a hotel to be your 
own little maid.” 

Baroness Olga was aware that the prince 
would not drive with his wife in the Cas- 
cine to-day. She had gained this triumph. 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


1GG 

How droll that Celia should have chosen 
the Boboli Garden instead, unless her sus- 
picions had been aroused ! But Celia sus- 
pected nothing. She was glad of the 
change of scene, and the tranquil beauty 
of the autumn day soothed her spirits. 
She would have preferred that the baron 
and baroness had not appeared. To sit on 
the bench beside her own mother for an 
hour seemed to her rest. Was it possible 
that the American princess was becoming 
weary of her world ? 

“ Here it is !” exclaimed John Winter. 

A wandering ray of sunshine had smote 
sparks from a tiny star of light among the 
moss, and the diamond twinkled like a 
dew-drop. He received the thanks of the 
ladies quietly, and walked on. 

In the mean while the group of young 
men emerging from the other gate had fol- 
lowed Justinia. She walked rapidly to her 
own door, and there was no difficulty in 
tracing her. Justinia did not perceive that 
she was followed. She was very angry with 
John Winter for putting her in the position 
where she had found herself ; her indigna- 
tion turned against him with all the impet- 
uous warmth in resentment of her nature. 
Why had he failed, to meet and protect 
her? The young men paused on the op- 
posite corner and inspected the premises. 
The prince, sustaining the appearance of 
being an unwilling captive, which secretly 
pleased him, paused with the others, await- 
ing their comments. The situation also 
amused him. 

The Baroness Olga had commanded him 
to meet her in the Boboli Gardens, and he 
had obeyed. Vanity was the strongest char- 
acteristic of the Prince del Giglio. The un- 
expected interposition of Justinia, in her 
pretty hat, had saved him from becoming 
ridiculous in the eyes of his friends. If he 
could prove to them that Justinia was the 
real object of his interest, he would punish 
Baroness Olga a trifle while shielding her 
as well. 

“ Well, are you satisfied, my friends ?” he 
inquired, lighting a cigar. 

“No,” said one of the young men. “An- 
drea is duping us. He went to meet Bar- 
oness Olga, like the rest of us. What a 
witch she is ! He knows this stranger no 
better than I.” 

The prince protested with animation; 
the merriment of his companions increased. 
They crossed a bridge to their club, in- 
dulging in that raillery which so readily 


merges into anger with hot-blooded South- 
ern races. 

“ Come,” said the prince, when the club 
was reached. “What would you say if I 
had an appointment to keep in that house 
at one o’clock to-night ?” 

“ I would reply that thou liest, mon cher ,” 
said the first scoffer. 

The laughter and raillery recommenced. 
The prince feared the ridicule of his asso- 
ciates as much as a Frenchman. 

“ Salvator would not dare to bet on it, 
however,” he said, mocking in turn. 

“I am as ready as any one,” replied Sal- 
vator. 

A wager was arranged on the spot. The 
prince agreed that his three friends should 
see him pay a visit to Justinia at one o’clock. 
Then they separated. 

His mood was as gay at dinner, when he 
joined his wife, as that of the Baroness Olga 
had been in the afternoon, when hanging 
on the arm of her husband. Celia, on the 
contrary, was a little distrait in appearance ; 
her face still wore the same tranquil ex- 
pression which had come to it in the sunny 
garden. She inquired about the new horse, 
and the prince replied that it was an infe- 
rior animal. He had returned from the 
villa sufficiently early for the drive in the 
Cascine, but doubtless she was already 
there, so lie paused at the club instead. 
Possibly Celia had noticed his w T agon be- 
fore the club door. No ; she had not seen 
the wagon. She had been to the Boboli 
Gardens with her mother. The prince 
sipped a glass of wine. 

“ Who did you meet there ?” he inquired, 
carelessly. 

“ Oh, only the Baron Blek and his wife,” 
replied the princess. 

She looked across the table at the young 
man attentively. What did she suspect? 
Of what was she thinking ? Instinctively 
the prince prepared himself for a scene of 
conjugal jealousy, and the announcement 
that she had seen him at the Boboli Gar- 
dens. Her next words surprised him as 
much as he ever permitted anything to as- 
tonish him in this world, for the prince 
prided himself on a certain philosophy 
which merged on haughty indifference. It 
was the code of his family to early assume 
this bearing. 

“Andrea, why do you not follow the 
court to Rome ?” inquired his wife, resting 
her arm on the table, and playing with the 
spoon in her coffee-cup. 


167 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


The prince stared at her with a puzzled 
expression. 

“ I am a Florentine,” he replied. “ Why 
should I go to Rome ?” 

Celia smiled, and her eye sparkled. 

“ Do you not see that the king is a truly 
great man, and the future of Italy will rest 
in his hands?” she said, in an animated 
tone. “You should, belong to this future, 
as a young man who loves his country. The 
Marchese Pallavicino and a host of heroes 
have suffered that you might live to attain 
this day. There must be something for the 
Prince del Giglio to accomplish with the 
rest.” 

The prince shrugged his shoulders. The 
war-note of the trumpet had never aroused 
his interest or sympathy. He belonged in 
liis own city, where he inhabited his own 
palace, and was of importance at the club. 
At Rome he would be one of many, and 
lose much prestige of position. 

“You are quite a politician,” he said, 
with a sneer. “Where would your ambi- 
tion lead you, ma mie, if I may venture to 
inquire ? Would you like to see me a court 
chamberlain, drawing a salary from the 
Piedmontese purse, or yourself a lady of 
honor to the Crown Princess Margherita?” 

Celia continued to toy with the silver 
spoon; her gaze was fixed on the table- 
cloth. 

“You are young,” she said, musingly. “I 
wonder if you will be contented always with 
the routine of your daily life here — the club, 
where you meet the same men ; the Cascine, 
in the afternoon, where you compliment the 
same women as yesterday ; the ball, opera, 
or reception, where you encounter both in 
the evening !” 

“ Speak for yourself, ma chfoe ,” replied 
the prince. 

Then he left the table and strolled into 
an adjoining room, where, with a cigar in 
the corner of his mouth, he seated himself 
at a piano and played a waltz of Strauss. 
The waltz was very well performed. The 
prince was piqued, however. Vanity was 
liis strongest trait, as has been affirmed, and 
the suggestions of his wife were displeasing 
to him. What better course can a noble- 
man pursue, wdio is inspired with a pro- 
found disdain of the new order of things, 
than to remain in his own place, a passive 
spectator of public events of which he dis- 
approves ? He had no doubt of himself— a 
Giglio — but he doubted Celia because of 
her suggestion. Perhaps she was still think- 


ing of the superb Piedmontese officer, who 
had gone to Rome. 

Here the slender, nervous fingers of the 
prince struck a sharp discord on the key- 
board. Possibly Celia admired, or had 
been adroitly flattered by some member of 
the king's family. He go to Rome and 
await royal favor ! In his heart he could 
not forgive the golden-haired girl, who had 
adored him, for weighing him in the bal- 
ance of practical sense. His resentment 
partook of the nature of that of Baroness 
Olga when her husband had indicated a 
course of conduct which he desired her to 
pursue on the day of the Grillofete. 

Celia remained seated at the table, as if 
she did not perceive the abrupt departure 
of her husband. The tranquil mood, which 
she termed the autumn sunshine of the Bo- 
boli Gardens, still held her as if under a 
spell. The reply of the prince had trou- 
bled without disappointing her. She had 
anticipated it. What remained to be done ? 
To abandon the matter? 

The contrast between the English wom- 
an of all classes and the American who 
marries an Italian is remarkable. The 
English woman never loses her nationality ; 
her children speak her native tongue readi- 
ly; and when she is old, the manner of 
smoothing her hair on either side of her 
face, the wondrous combinations of her 
caps, as well as the admirable reforms she 
has introduced and maintained in her me- 
nage, proclaim her Saxon origin. The Amer- 
ican loses her personal identity much more 
readily by a facile adaptation to the forms 
about her. 

At length the young wife quitted the 
dining-room also, but by another door. 
She went to witness a ceremony which had 
not lost its first charm. The princeling 
was disrobed, and put to bed in a little 
nest of lace — a basket crib — at this hour. 
Usually the two grandmothers and Celia 
assisted the buxom and placid Marianna, 
at least by forming an admiring audience. 
This evening the young mother alone ca- 
ressed the baby’s dimpled limbs, and saw 
the downy little head placed on the pillow. 
She departed on tiptoe to summon her 
husband ; perhaps she had displeased him 
by her remarks at dinner. The prince had 
gone out. 

John Winter, having restored the ring 
to Mrs. Bayard, hastened on to the shelter- 
ed path where Justinia Ritchie awaited 
him. He had no watch, as has been stated, 


1G8 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

and lie would have dreaded to consult it. 
Certainly lie must be very late. The path 
was deserted, much to his disappointment. 
He searched for the familiar black hat be- 
side the fountain where the children play- 
ed: Justinia had vanished. John obeyed 
his first impulse, and went home to make 
his excuses and explanations. His neigh- 
bor’s door was locked. Justinia, in anger, 
had taken her old servant with her, and 
sought the Colli, determined to remain out 
as late as possible. 

The plants had bloomed in the loggia a 
second summer, and the little orange-tree 
had blossomed. Earlier in the afternoon 
Justinia had placed a little American flag 
above it to attract John’s attention. He 
perceived the flag, and approached the tree. 
Lo ! a tiny ball of fruit had formed on the 
branch. Had not Justinia proposed that 
the first orange of this lofty conservatory 
should be welcomed with a fete ? He 
awaited the return of his neighbor for an 
hour, and then he was forced to keep an 
appointment with the old sculptor. 

John Winter returned to the studio, and 
in fifteen minutes he had forgotten Justinia, 
the Boboli Gardens, and all the world be- 
yond these walls. A casual observer, like 
Albert Dennis or the foreman Angelo, 
might have inquired what occupation could 
so fully absorb two men of different ages at 
this hour. Neither of them worked, or 
moved about. They occupied the inner 
room of Abraham Blackwood ; a dim lamp 
burnt on a table ; the old sculptor sat with 
a pipe in his mouth, and his head leaned 
against the wall; while John Winter occu- 
pied a wooden stool opposite. They were 
talking in an animated tone, and the lapse 
of moments was equally unheeded by both. 
From time to time in their conversation 
their gaze reverted to a statue in clay 
which occupied the centre of the room. 

This statue was as small as the Venus de’ 
Medici, and draped from the waist with 
those light folds which reveal the outline 
of delicate limbs. Pandora, the first cre- 
ated woman, held her box, about to raise 
the lid, which would scatter evil on the 
earth. Her head was bent; the curiosity 
of her face, blended with childish naivete 
of innocence, was as yet unmarred by ter- 
ror, while the smile hovering about her 
mouth was sweet and indefinably mock- 
ing. Pandora was Celia Bayard, the young 
girl who dreamed in the house of Neliemi- 
ah Methley so long ago, and the sculptor 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

who had thus idealized her was John 
Winter. 

The old sculptor had guarded the labors 
of his pupil from the outset of the under- 
taking by compelling him to retire to his 
sanctum and work in secrecy. At night 
Abraham Blackwood locked the door, and 
put the key in his own pocket. Pandora 
had remained invisible. 

He had now summoned John to discuss 
a project of his own. Inspired by an en- 
thusiasm and an interest which he had 
never felt in his own creations, because of 
his painful lack of self-confidence, the old 
sculptor wished the Pandora executed in 
marble before exhibited. John was aston- 
ished at the audacity of the proposition. 

“ It is good work,” said the old man, re- 
moving his pipe from his lips. “ I believe 
it will live. I never anticipated as much 
of you, John. I have made an engage- 
ment to go with you to-morrow down to 
Carrara to select the block of marble, 
henceforth to be consecrated to the Pan- 
dora.” 

“ To-morrow 1” exclaimed John. 

Abraham Blackwood nodded, and shook 
the ashes from his pipe. 

“ But I have not the money to pay for 
the marble,” objected John. 

“ Nothing venture, nothing have !” re- 
torted the old sculptor, firmly. 

This proposal had been made at eleven 
o’clock ; at half-past twelve John Winter 
still listened to it, his imagination render- 
ed active by the proposed journey to Car- 
rara. Was not the very thought a poet- 
ical one — to seek in those mines which 
were the work-room of Nature the stainless 
marble, without flaw or blemish, worthy of 
crystallizing the Pandora, his first statue ? 

u It is late, and we must be off in good 
season to-morrow,” said the old sculptor, 
consulting his watch. 

John returned home with a light and 
elastic step. He was full of hope and 
fresh resolution. The little orange-tree 
had borne fruit; this must be emblematic 
of Pandora in marble ! He passed three 
young men walking slowly along, and rec- 
ognized in them the golden youth of the 
city. Reaching the massive door of the 
old house, he inserted the key carried in 
his pocket for the purpose. The cobbler 
had departed, and, entering the door, John 
found himself in dense darkness. He 
paused to search his pockets for a match 
or wax-taper, such as prudent lodgers in 


1GD 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

Italian houses invariably carry, but found 
none. 

His attention during this pause was at- 
tracted by a slight noise: some person 
moved on the staircase above. The cir- 
cumstance did not alarm John, as there 
were other lodgers below his rooms. He 
groped his way along cautiously, content- 
ing himself with remaining far behind his 
unseen companion. He climbed one flight, 
two, three, and four in this manner, paus- 
ing occasionally to listen to the other foot- 
falls. 

“ It is the signore of the fifth story,” he 
reflected. “Perhaps it is best to allow 
him to enter his own door.” 

The footsteps traversed the landing, and 
began to climb the last flight of stairs. 
John Winter’s heart bounded, and then 
stood still. Nobody had the right to as- 
cend there but Justinia and himself. Who 
was this stealthy intruder? The thought 
of Albert Dennis flashed through his mind. 
He held his breath, and climbed the stairs 
with more caution than he had yet exer- 
cised. He believed himself asleep, the vic- 
tim of a dream, so profound was his sur- 
prise. 

The other man entered the loggia. 

John Winter paused in the shadow and 
watched him. Advancing to the parapet, 
the intruder disengaged from his button- 
hole a little bouquet, which he wrapped in 
his handkerchief, and, leaning over, tossed 
into the street below. Then he drew back 
and listened. A low wdiistle broke the 
stillness of night. Apparently satisfied by 
this result, he turned and approached the 
door of J ustinia’s apartment. 

The blood rushed to John Winter’s face ; 
he clinched his fist with a threatening 
gesture. The stranger tried the door soft- 
ly. John grew giddy. Heavens ! did he 
anticipate finding it open? Was the old 
servant a traitor? The door was locked. 
John breathed a sigh of relief. 

The stranger knocked cautiously. No 
response. Then he looked about for a 
bell ; but at the moment -when his fingers 
encountered the cord, he was seized by two 
powerful arms and lifted bodily from the 
ground. So rapidly was this done that 
the intruder had not time to struggle, or 
even to utter an exclamation. He believed 
that his last moment had come, and bent 
like a reed in the grasp of his antagonist. 
John Winter dragged his writhing victim 
to the parapet and looked at him. 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

He recognized the Prince del Giglio ! 

“ What are you doing here ?” he demand- 
ed, in a hoarse and smothered voice. 

The prince made no reply ; he strove to 
recover equilibrium. The wrath of the 
sculptor was so terrible that he was dimly 
aware he no longer had control over him- 
self. He had never been angry before in 
his life, in the true sense of the word. He 
had never experienced the savage desire to 
crush and destroy the object of his ven- 
geance. His fingers tightened their hold 
on the slender form they held ; he raised 
the prince above the parapet, and poised 
him, a helpless burden, over the abyss of 
narrow street; he reviled him with bitter, 
incoherent words, which he could not after- 
ward recall. 

“Shall I send you after your own bou- 
quet?” he said, always in a suppressed tone 
that Justinia must not hear. “ I have only 
to open my fingers and you are lost. What 
are you doing in this loggia, my home ?” 

The prince cluDg to the arms which held 
him, but he closed his lips ; he would not 
beg for mercy of this sculptor. 

“ Bah ! you are not worth staining a 
man’s soul with murder. Live ! Only re- 
peat your visit here and you shall die ! Do 
you understand ? What ! searching for 
weapons, are you ? Allow me to relieve 
.you of the pocket-pistol, Prince del Giglio. 
I should have imagined the national knife 
more in keeping with your adventures. 
You must be as fond of stabbing men in 
the back as were your ancestors. Now 
go!” 

The prince, once released, disappeared. 
He had not opened his lips, although John 
Winter had surprised a rapid movement 
toward the concealed weapon, and wrench- 
ed it away. 

The young men in the street had a weary 
vigil. The prince emerged from the door 
at five o’clock in the morning. He had 
waited in the dark vestibule until this hour 
in the interests of his wager, his vanity, and 
to punish his friends for their incredulity. 
To be sure, he had had recourse to the ser- 
vices of his valet to ascertain who Justinia 
was, and where her apartment was located. 
Then he had proposed to his friends drop- 
ping the bouquet from the loggia, as if fa- 
miliar with the spot. He knew nothing of 
the vicinity of John Winter — so dangerous 
to the enterprise — because the whole affair 
had been too rapidly concluded, but he had 
pleased himself with the prospect of an in- 


170 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

terview with Justiuia, obtained by some 
means. To wait in the hall was ignomini- 
ous ; still, nobody was witness of the petty 
humiliation. 

John Winter, left alone, carried the pistol 
into his room and returned to the loggia, a 
prey to many conflicting emotions. The 
plants bloomed along the parapet, and the 
little orange-tree still held the flag which 
announced its first fruit. 

At an early hour the next morning he 
knocked on the door of his neighbor. He 
heard with satisfaction the sliding of bolts, 
and the cautious opening of the door pe- 
culiar to Italian servants. Justiuia ap- 
peared. She was a little cool in manner, 
but she did not evade the scrutiny of John 
Winter’s glance. The young man’s brow 
cleared as he looked at her and made his 
apologies. Justinia uttered a cry of dismay. 

“ Has there been a storm in the night ?” 
she inquired. 

The little orange-tree was broken, and 
the other plants had showered their petals 
on the ground. John’s attack on the prince 
had left no worse traces. 

“ Justinia, will you marry me ?” he asked, 
w T ith a harsh and startling abruptness. 

“ I have told you no,” said Justinia, gen- 
tly. “ I am too near the end to turn aside 
now.” 

“You mean — ” began the young man, 
eagerly. 

“ My master promises me a debut in a few 
months,” said Justinia, triumphantly — “if 
the aid of your friend does not fail me,” she 
added, with sudden humility. 

“ Oh no, he will not fail you,” said John, 
confusedly. 

“ Did you say this Mr. Temple lives at 
Rome?” pursued Justinia, earnestly. “Ah ! 
how I would like to thank him personally 
for his generosity !” 

“ He is eccentric ; it is not necessary,” 
muttered John, finding himself involved in 
endless fresh meshes of deception by the 
position he had assumed. 

Yet his motive was a good one. Sum- 
moning all his courage, he continued, 

“ If you will not marry me, Justinia, and 
give me the right to protect you, it will be 
better for you to live elsewhere.” 

Justinia blushed deeply, and drew her- 
self up. 

“ Pardon me,” said John, in a tone of dis- 
tress. “ The position is a false one — it is 
an evil-tongued city — a young lady living 
alone up here, and — •” 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

“ Enough ! I will go,” Said Justinia, trem- 
ulous with indignation. 

Then she turned her back on John Win- 
ter, and at that moment he beheld the old 
sculptor in the street below, awaiting him. 

John suffered the master to select the 
block of Carrara marble, fresh from Nature’s 
work-room ; and it was fortunate he had so 
experienced a companion with him. When 
he returned home the loggia was deserted, 
and Justinia gone. She had taken quarters 
in an Italian family. He believed that he 
had wounded her by blunt words, but sure- 
ly he would have inflicted more pain had he 
told her about the nocturnal visit of the 
prince to her door, while his friends waited 
below. 

John Winter looked at the broken or- 
ange-tree, and realized that all was changed 
for him. In his heart he cursed the Prince 
del Giglio ! 


CHAPTER IX. 

BEFORE THE FOOT-LIGHTS. 

The Pergola Theatre was filled with a 
good audience one evening of the ensuing 
March. The opera about to be performed 
offered no attraction of novelty, and the 
audience was composed chiefly of habitues, 
who still spent their evenings here. The 
pretty little building had been robbed of 
the grand ducal patronage which once ren- 
dered it brilliant, and later of the presence 
of royalty in the court of the king, but the 
Florentines continued to occupy their box- 
es. Alas ! not in the good old fashion, when 
suppers were served in these loges, and el- 
derly gentlemen played a quiet game of 
cards in a corner, while cavaliers breathed 
impassioned words in the ear of the lady 
whose right it was to display here her toi- 
lets and receive her friends. Since this 
date the Pergola, suffering collapse in the 
bankruptcy of the city, has been closed for 
whole seasons— a final blow to the former 
routine of life of the citizens. 

John Winter entered the parquet, and, in 
seating himself, looked steadily at the blank 
of curtain still concealing the stage, instead 
of studying the boxes, as is more custom- 
ary. His expression was anxious, and even 
dejected. He awaited the developments 
of the evening with more dread of success 
to the opera than of failure. To his evident 
dismay, another young man was given the 


171 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

seat next his own,*and greeted him affably I 
in taking his place. 

“ How are yon ?” said Albert Dennis. 

“ Good-evening,” replied John, stiffly. 

“ Are you fond of music ? I do not often 
see you here,” pursued Albert, taking out 
his ivory glass preparatory to criticising 
the ladies. 

“I do not come often,” said John. 

The American princess, attired in rose- 
color, already occupied the Giglio box. A 
little later the Baroness Olga, in yellow 
satin, rustled to the front of the Vallam- 
broni box opposite. If these family loges 
were tarnished in gilding, and the velvet 
of their hangings a little worn and thread- 
bare, youth and beauty still found a fitting 
shrine in both. The baron was seated in 
the other corner. His large fat face wore a 
dull expression, and his usually florid col- 
oring was observed to have deepened to 
purple about the chin and throat. One 
would have pronounced him a man threat- 
ened with apoplexy. 

Albert Dennis levelled his glass at the 
Yallambroni box, and then at that of the 
Giglio. The majority of the audience fol- 
lowed his example. John Winter lifted his 
eyes to the princess in her draperies, like a 
blush-rose, with the pleasure such contem- 
plation invariably afforded him — Celia Bay- 
ard was so much and so little in his life. 
His thought strayed to the Pandora of his 
studio, already outlined iu the precious 
block of marble. 

“By Jove! he is here also!” exclaimed 
Albert Dennis. 

“Who?” inquired John, involuntarily. 

“The Prince del Giglio,” said Albert, 
lowering his glass. 

“Is there anything remarkable in that?” 
said John, again consulting the blank cur- 
tain with his anxious gaze. 

Albert Dennis raised his eyebrows, and 
looked at his companion. 

“ Is it possible you do not know ? Have 
you not heard the flews ? All the town 
speaks of nothing else to-night.” 

“I have heard no news,” said John, 
gravely. 

“ You live in a world abovo us, perhaps,” 
replied Albert Dennis, with a smirk. “ Well, 
the Baron Blek received an anonymous let- 
ter at his club this afternoon. He read it, 
and flew into a frightful rage. I saw the 
denouement myself, as I happened to be 
passing. The baron came out the door into 
the street; he staggered as he walked like 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

a drunken man ; his eyes were bloodshot. 
He looked as if he would kill somebody 
or fall down in a fit. Jerusalem ! I should 
not have cared to stand in his way just 
then. The Prince del Giglio was on the 
curb -stone, talking and laughing with a 
group of young men. The baron walked 
up to him, and struck him across the face 
with his cane. The blow told ; the prince 
turned frightfully pale. Of course there 
was a challenge after that, and to-morrow 
the duel will take place. He is an inso- 
lent fellow, that Prince del Giglio. I do 
not mind seeing him brought down a 
peg.” 

John Winter listened, stunned by this 
revelation. He did live in a separate 
world of dreams and self-delusions, per- 
haps; he now experienced that chilled sen- 
sation possible to a passive spectator be- 
fore whom a terrible drama unfolds. He 
glanced at the Baroness Olga. She read- 
justed a diamond butterfly in her black 
hair, which was frizzed, and tapped her 
husband on the arm, to call his attention to 
some person in a remote portion of the 
house. The baron turned his eyes slowly 
in the direction indicated, with the aspect 
of one who does not see. John’s look nat- 
urally reverted to Celia. 

Pearls glistened about her slender throat, 
and a rose nestled in her blonde tresses. 
Never had her face appeared more youth- 
ful in its delicate beauty. She was talking 
and laughing unconcernedly with some 
person behind her, presumably her hus- 
band. The object of much gossip and 
scrutiny, was she ignorant of the events 
transpiring about her ? 

John Winter decided that the American 
princess would have had the good taste to 
remain at home had she divined the truth. 
As it was, her gayety and her appearance, 
by some painful fatality, were unusually 
conspicuous. 

The orchestra had entered, and were tun- 
ing their instruments — that dismal prelimi- 
nary to later harmonies. The hour was 
late, the audience a little impatient. Evi- 
dently some delay had occurred. A man 
in black appeared before the curtain with 
sliding step and graceful manners. He 
begged public indulgence for a young de- 
butante who found herself a little overcome 
in the greenroom. John Winter felt the 
veins of his temples throb. The man in 
black withdrew, and the orchestra began 
the overture. * ' 


172 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

“That must be the American girl who 
makes her debut to-night,” observed Albert 
Dennis, consulting his programme. 

John frowned, and vouchsafed no re- 
sponse. Then the opera began. The com- 
position was one of those trifling w r orks 
strung together by means of one or two 
sweet arias and a ballet, so often presented 
as a musical banquet in Italy, and seldom 
heard elsewhere. The role of tenor was 
sustained by a once famous singer, now re- 
tired, whose mellow voice, if worn, possess- 
ed the charm of an echo to those who had 
heard him in his prime. The career of the 
tenor was artistic and dreary in an eminent 
degree. He was a sculptor of the Renais- 
sance, and his most melodious plaints were 
poured forth in lamentations over the quar- 
rels of rival artists, the machinations of en- 
emies, and the tyranny of princes. Micha- 
el Angelo, as severe critic, appeared, and 
without ceremony seized a mallet and chis- 
el, and began to correct the false lines of 
the statue, into which the tenor had in- 
fused the sensibilities of a lifetime. The 
art lecture of Michael Angelo, delivered in 
well rounded bass notes, had scarcely ter- 
minated, to the bitter anguish of the sculp- 
tor, when the tyrant prince, who had al- 
ready robbed the tenor of a young sister, 
stalked in, claiming the statue, and inso- 
lently flung a purse of gold at the artist 
in payment for his work. The tenor, mad- 
dened and outraged, retired behind the 
screen, broke his precious statue into frag- 
ments, and then, sweeping aside the cur- 
tain, presented to the astonished tyrant 
the debris. Overcome by so many emo- 
tions, the tenor died in the arms of his 
faithful brother. 

This was the substance of the opera, of 
which John Winter lost not a single note. 
Why? 

Justinia Ritchie impersonated the broth- 
er of blighted genius. Attired as a boy, 
with silk stockings, high -heeled boots, a 
velvet doublet like that of Raphael, and a 
blonde wig, Justinia Ritchie made her first 
bow before the foot-lights. John Winter 
could not credit the evidence of his senses. 
He would never have recognized her. Was 
this his neighbor of the loggia in the sum- 
mer twilight, with the rippling, lustrous 
hair falling over the temples, and the long 
black dress, which imparted an undulating 
grace to every movement? The Justinia 
of the stage was no longer graceful. Shorn 
of her natural draperies, she was awkward, 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

abashed, in her boy’s dress. Her role gave 
her ample opportunity for arch coquetry, for 
the display of a slender foot, a small hand. 
Although she was undeniably pretty in re- 
pose, she lost each occasion presented to 
produce a favorable impression, either from 
stage fright or excessive self-consciousness. 
By what fatality had Justinia been launch- 
ed on her new career in the character of a 
boy ? 

The audience received her coolly, indif- 
ferently ; the tenor, who strove to sustain 
her, was the favorite. Her voice was pure 
in tone, and her singing correct; timidity 
robbed both of coloring and power. The 
Baroness Olga talked to a group of gentle- 
men who had gathered about her, without 
glancing at the stage. The Princess del 
Giglio was scarcely more attentive. A mil- 
itary functionary in the stage-box turned 
his back and read a newspaper with de- 
liberation. Albert Dennis criticised the 
instep and ankles of the debutante with the 
knowing aspect of a connoisseur. 

“The ankles are good, but the singing is 
bad — very bad. She w r ill never succeed : 
her voice is reedy and sharp : probably 
she has been overtrained.” 

“How dare you speak of— of— a lady 
like that?” said John Winter, in a voice 
tremulous with anger. 

Albert Dennis looked at him ingenuously. 

“I have not said that my fair country- 
woman was not a lady, have I ? She is an 
actress, however, and must expect to be 
criticised.” 

A sudden light came to him. 

“ By Jove ! I believe this Signora Rizza is 
your neighbor of the loggia, Miss Justinia 
Ritchie. I never thought of that before.” 

“Hush! do not speak so loud,” said 
John, a burning blush overspreading his 
face. 

How helpless he was! Let the blonde 
wig, the rouge, and the high-heeled boots 
belong to the Signora Rizza of the theatre, 
while the name of Justinia Ritchie remain- 
ed unknown. Rage and sorrow were curi- 
ously blended in his heart at the contempt 
of this girl on the stage. He beheld the 
curtain fall, after the first and second acts, 
with unspeakable relief that the painful 
ordeal was partially over. Where were 
the plaudits, the wreaths and bouquets, 
showered on a new favorite, dreamed of by 
a debutante — the calls of welcome before the 
curtain? None of these demonstrations 
greeted Justinia Ritchie. 


173 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


In the third act the military man yawn- 
ed, folded up his newspaper, and left his 
box in the midst of her most important 
solo. Was it owing to this trivial slight 
that she faltered and paused? Justinia, 
also artistic, like her brother the sculptor, 
held a palette and worked at an easel 
while she sung. Bravely she recommenced 
her aria, confronting by a strong effort the 
sea of faces beyond the lights. She had 
nearly concluded, when her tones again fal- 
tered and broke. 

A warning hiss came from an upper gal- 
lery. Justinia grew deadly pale, despite 
her rouge, and a shiver passed over her 
frame; her haggard eyes roved in search 
of a friendly glance. The tenor, happily 
near his end, hastened again to the rescue 
with the diversion of his own tragic griefs, 
and the destruction of his masterpiece 
rather than yield it to the tyrant prince. 
Justinia remained at her post on the stage 
during this ordeal, now appealed to as a 
confidante by the tenor, and now dragged 
frantically about by him, but she was mute. 

John Winter rose and left the house. 
Albert Dennis looked after him curiously, 
and then took his seat as a better one than 
his own. 

“What a grumpy fellow John Winter 
has become!” he soliloquized. “He will 
be as crusty as the old sculptor in a few 
years.” 

The Princess del Giglio observed noth- 
ing amiss on the stage. The opera was 
tedious, but one did not come for the 
music. She -was not aware that Justinia 
Ritchie was an American, if she thought 
of her at all. She turned her head to ad- 
dress her husband. The prince was stand- 
ins: in the shadow of a curtain, and intent- 
ly studying the Vallambroni box through 
his glass. 

“The baron has not been to call on me 
yet,” said Celia. “ He remains always in 
his seat. I wish you would send him to 
me, Andrea.” 

The prince turned his glass in another 
direction. 

“ The dear baron ! he is such an amia- 
ble, good man,” pursued Celia. “He is 
really fond of baby, and never fails to 
pause and kiss him on the promenade. 
Only this morning he gave to Marianna a 
coral with little gold bells. I must thank 
him.” 

“ Why do you wear that rose above your 
left ear ? It is very unbecoming.” 


The prince had lowered his glass, and 
was looking at his wife with an irritated 
expression. Celia started, and gave him a 
reproachful glance. 

“ I thought you admired the rose. Per- 
haps you prefer a diamond butterfly over 
the right eyebrow,” she added, with some 
spirit. 

The prince laughed, but soon relapsed 
into silence again. His face was growing 
pale with fatigue or disquiet, while his 
features had suffered that sudden sharpen- 
ing which made him appear an older man 
than he actually was when moved by emo- 
tion. 

Oh, the sense of burning shame and bit- 
ter despair, the overwhelming weakness of 
Justinia Ritchie, when she turned and fled 
from the stage ! Her instinct was to hide 
herself and be forgotten. The old tenor 
spoke kindly to her — reassuring words 
about a first appearance — but she did not 
heed him. She had studied with feverish 
zeal months and years for this end ! Her 
voice had broken when she first essayed to 
sing. She felt herself branded by humilia- 
ting failure; the hiss still rung in her ears. 
She hated the foot-lights — the cruel, mock- 
ing people beyond — her boy’s dress. Why 
had her teacher selected for her this trifling 
and absurd part? Possibly the master 
knew her capacity better than she did 
herself. The voice of the robin is not that 
of the soaring lark, and in the world of 
song few true nightingales are accorded 
to a generation, a century. 

Justinia Ritchie, a robin, had striven to 
become the lark, and failed. That ambi- 
tion to succeed, to lose no time, to press 
forward at all hazards, under the forcing 
training of the instruction to which she 
had been subjected, had impaired, if not 
ruined, the delicacy of a truly pure voice. 
Justinia was like the blind person to whom 
the world grows suddenly dark, without 
realizing the cause of this terrible obscuri- 
ty. She wished to flee, and never confront 
these people again. 

John Winter was waiting for her at the 
stage-door. He knew instinctively a slen- 
der muffled figure, with drooping head, 
about to glide past him along the street. 
He took Justinia’s cold and trembling 
hand, and drew it within his arm. She 
did not resist : she was crushed, broken in 
spirit. 

“Justinia, would you be very much hurt 
if I should say that I hope the stage has 


174 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


finished with you ?” demanded the young 
man, firmly. 

Justinia raised her head, and the color 
rushed to her white cheeks. 

“ It was horrible !” pursued John. 

“My failure?” whispered Justinia, with 
resignation. 

“Your failure? Not at all. Your part 
could not have been better performed,” as- 
serted John, stoutly. “ The stage seems to 
me a hideous mask. How can women like 
you be so dazzled with its tawdry display ? 
When F think of that fat and greasy tenor 
dragging you about before the foot-lights ! 
Ugh l” 

Justinia was stung to the quick; her old 
spirit returned to her. 

“ The tenor is a kind man,” she replied, 
always in a whisper. 

“ What does it signify to us whether he 
is kind or not?” inquired John, gruffly. 

“ I did not expect this from you,” mur- 
mured Justinia, with a stifled sob. 

“Forgive me,” said John, pressing the 
hand within his arm. “ There ! we will say 
no more to-night. May I come and -see you 
to-morrow, Justinia? Ah, if you knew 
how deserted our loggia seems without 
you !” 

Justinia reflected a moment. 

“ Not to-morrow, John, but the following 
day,” she said. 

At the door of her residence she paused 
and gave him her hand. She even came 
back a step to pat him on the arm and 
whisper, 

“You are the only true friend I have ever 
found in Europe. God bless you, John !” 

How worn and pale her face looked in 
the light of the street-lamp ! 

“ Poor little bird !” said John, tenderly. 

Justinia vanished. 

The following morning John rose with a 
light heart. The failure of Justinia ap- 
peared to him providential. It seemed to 
him that ambitious dreams of becoming a 
great singer on her part alone had divided 
them. This obstacle had been removed 
without his interposition. Poverty did not 
chill his courage to face destiny and marry 
Justinia. Already a serene and tranquil se- 
curity of happiness infused itself through 
his being, blended with pity for her present 
suffering. He was tempted to seek her new 
lodging and inquire for her health this 
morning, then refrained from doing so in 
the fear of being too officious. Had not 
Justinia requested him to wait until the 


following day ? He resumed his usual oc- 
cupations of the studio. 

At three o’clock he had occasion to go 
home for his portfolio. John Winter did 
not return to the loggia now with the 
alacrity which had marked his movements 
when Justinia had been his neighbor. To 
his surprise, he found a letter on his table. 
He opened it, and read that Justinia had 
left Florence ! 

The lines swam before his eyes. The 
meaning of the letter was unmistakably 
clear, however. Justinia bade him fare- 
well, while expressing her gratitude for all 
his brotherly kindness to her. She was not 
without resources : she had a project which 
she was about to execute. John need have 
no anxiety for her future, and, above all, he 
must not seek her until she made her pres- 
ence manifest, because he would not suc- 
ceed. The city of Florence had become 
doubly distasteful to her, and she had 
left it. 

With the letter still in his hand, John 
ran down-stairs. The cobbler sat in his 
dark little den, mending a shoe. 

The signorina brought the letter herself 
at eleven o’clock, he explained. She was 
going away, and she wished to see the log- 
gia, where she gathered a little bouquet 
from the faded plants. Poor Justinia ! 

John, his face very pale, and his eyes ren- 
dered almost black by intense emotion, 
sought the abode of Justinia. The signo- 
rina went away by the railway; the people 
did not know her destination ; she refrained 
from telling them. She might have jour- 
neyed north or south, because at the hour 
of her departure two trains were due, going 
in different directions. John descended to 
the street and sought the Arno bank, where 
he leaned over the parapet, gazing at the 
river. In his stupefaction he demanded 
angrily by what right Justinia treated him 
thus. Brotherly kindness, indeed ! 

The day was brilliantly clear and cold. 
Prudent people had deserted the Lung’ 
Arno because of the dangerous heat of the 
sun in contrast with the keen wind sweep- 
ing down from the snow-mountains. John 
Winter cared neither for the sun nor the 
wind in his despair. His life had been 
robbed of the only sweet influence he had 
ever known. Justinia had doubted him, 
evaded him, and disappeared. He was 
aroused by a light blow on the shoulder. 
Albert Dennis, attired in the latest fashion, 
stood before him, with a cigar in his mouth. 


175 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

At tlie same moment a carriage approached 
rapidly from the direction of the bridges. 
In this carriage was seated the Princess del 
Giglio, who bowed and smiled sweetly as 
she passed. 

Celia w r as radiant with beauty on this 
fresh winter day. She was dressed in pur- 
ple velvet and sable ; a robe of dark, rich 
fur converted her equipage into a sort of 
luxurious nest. Albert Dennis was so as- 
tonished at her appearance that he nearly 
lost the cigar from his mouth. 

“To-day!” he ejaculated. “Very bad 
form, you know.” 

John Winter, not understanding the re- 
mark, made no response. 

“ The other one has had the good taste 
to remain at home,” pursued Albert, glibly. 
“ She is decidedly the clever woman of the 
two. I bet on the baroness. I had the cu- 
riosity to walk round there when I heard 
the news. The Yallambroni gate was open, 
and the baroness just emerging in her lan- 
dau, all velvet and furs too. The horses 
were prancing out, when I heard a sort of 
cry in the house somewhere, and the coach- 
man forced back the equipage, and the gate 
closed. It was not the baroness who shriek- 
ed — I stood opposite the gate, and could 
see her — and she turned her head to listen. 
All the same, she has not driven out, you 
perceive.” 

John Winter struck the stone parapet 
against which he leaned a blow with the 
palm of his hand. 

“What are you talking about, Albert ?” 
he demanded, impatiently. 

Albert Dennis stared at his former com- 
rade a moment with truly unfeigned sur- 
prise ; then he made a little, mocking 
bow. 

“Excuse me, oh genius just descended 
from cloud-land ! but do you not know that 
the prince — ” 

“I know and care nothing about the 
prince,” interrupted John Winter, with bit- 
terness. He remembered the night advent- 
ure, doubtless actuated by a club wager, 
which had driven away his neighbor, now 
lost to him forever. 

“ The Prince del Giglio fought a duel to- 
day, my friend, with the baron, and killed 
him ! They say the baron was so furious 
that it w T as no child’s-play, and the prince 
was obliged to slay or be slain,” pursued 
Albert, with the important air of imparting 
great news. 

John Winter’s eye dilated; he followed 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

the carriage of the princess with a thought- 
ful glance. 

“ She does not know,” he murmured, and 
prepared to move away. 

“ Where are you going ?” demanded Al- 
bert Dennis, quickly. 

“ To the Cascine,” replied John, quietly. 
“ I am not well dressed. You had better 
pretend that you do not know me : I as- 
sure you my feelings will not be hurt.” 

Albert Dennis winced, and glanced 
askance at John’s rough gray coat and 
shabby cap. He suffered John to go on 
alone, but afterward curiosity led him to 
track him by hiding behind trees, and se- 
lecting secluded paths. 

The carriage of the American princess 
had paused in the winter drive, sheltered 
by the hedges from the wind. Amidst the 
throng of vehicles her own was soon sur- 
rounded. Not a detail of that scene was 
ever forgotten by her afterward. The riv- 
er, the blue sky, the blinding sunshine, and 
all faces wearing the smile of greeting, 
which concealed cruelty, disapproval, per- 
haps bitter censure. Her husband had ex- 
cused himself for the day at an early hour. 
The circumstance was not' unusual now. 
Count Guigione was absent, as well as the 
Baron and Baroness Blek. Celia was a 
trifle disappointed over the latter circum- 
stance, because she had come to consider 
the baroness her rival in dress, if nothing 
else, and she desired to dazzle her with the 
purple velvet robes she wore. Perhaps 
they would arrive later. She talked with 
the gentlemen who surrounded her carriage. 

John Winter paused for an hour on the op- 
posite side of the road, awaiting his oppor- 
tunity. He could not elbow his way into 
the group, and say what he wished aloud. 
Besides, the harm was already done. The 
smiles of the princess jarred painfully on 
his senses, but he felt confident of a truth 
doubted by all, even Albert Dennis, that 
she was ignorant of the events of the day. 
Finally the loungers scattered, owing to 
the propinquity of an unruly horse. John 
darted to the other side of the carriage, 
and said, in a low tone, 

“ Go home immediately !” 

Celia started and turned pale. 

“What has happened?” she gasped. 

John Winter had already disappeared 
behind the hedge. She gave the order to 
return; the footman winked significantly 
at the coachman. 

Mrs. Bayard had not gone out that day. 


17G 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

She sat by a wood-fire in the tiniest bou- 
doir of her stately apartment, wrapped in 
a shawl, and absorbed in gloomy medita- 
tions. A cloud had appeared on Mrs. Bay- 
ard’s horizon which threatened to obscure 
her sky. The old princess daily asserted 
her authority, and her superior wisdom in 
all feminine matters, with more arrogance. 
The rival grandmothers had found them- 
selves at odds; and while it was Mrs. 
Bayard who bought the silver porringers, 
spoons, and cups for her grandchild, the 
princess claimed the right to control his 
life. 

One evening in the autumn this same 
little boudoir had witnessed a charming 
scene. A fire had been lighted, as the sea- 
son was already chill, and the curtains 
drawn. Mrs. Bayard occupied a low arm- 
chair, while Celia knelt beside her, and the 
baby, on the lap of his grandmother, was 
stretching a pair of tiny rosy feet toward 
the warmth, with cooings of satisfaction. 
Marianna had witnessed the scene with 
manifest uneasiness, and finally disappear- 
ed. A few moments later the old princess 
entered the room swiftly, and snatched 
the baby from the lap of the astonished 
Mrs. Bayard. 

“Are you mad, that you risk this child’s 
life thus?” she exclaimed, with flashing 
eyes. “Do you not know that the child 
suffered to approach a fire dies ?” 

Both Mrs. Bayard and Celia rose to their 
feet. 

“I am not ignorant concerning infants, 
madame,” said Mrs. Bayard, in a voice she 
strove to render steady. 

“ In your own country, perhaps,” replied 
the princess, with a sneer, as she passed her 
hand over the head of the child. “ I must 
answer for the life of my grandson. Here, 
Marianna, take him to my rooms.” 

Marianna obeyed, with a triumphant 
glance at the other ladies. The princess 
followed her without further ceremony. 
The wounded pride of Mrs. Bayard can be 
better imagined than described. She was 
not to be allowed to warm the little feet 
of her grandson without the interference 
of the old princess. 

“What does she take us for?” she de- 
manded, angrily. 

Celia’s indignation led her to appeal to 
her husband. The prince listened to her 
complaints, and sought his mother. He 
returned with the assurance that the 
princeling had best remain above -stairs 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

for the present. He was placid and mild 
in bearing while making this statement; 
he even took the trouble to explain to 
Mrs. Bayard the fear all Italian parents 
have of artificial warmth for their children. 
A child is never permitted to warm his 
hands and feet with the scaldino of a grown 
person. 

Mrs. Bayard listened, but was not con- 
vinced. Her grandchild had been snatch- 
ed from her arms, and the old princess had 
made no adequate apology for the measure. 

“ I will never go up-stairs to baby !” she 
exclaimed, with tears in her eyes. 

In turn, the old princess refused to have 
the princeling exposed to the warmth of 
Mrs. Bayard’s apartment. Celia attempted 
to soothe her mother and conceal her own 
chagrin. In time she accepted the situa- 
tion. Family pride was involved in the 
care bestowed by the old princess on her 
grandson. Celia sighed, and turned to her 
new dresses. 

Mrs. Bayard was seated by her fire wrap- 
ped in the shawl, and meditating. She 
had not seen Celia that day. Little The- 
resa came into the room on some triflinsr 
pretext and looked at Mrs. Bayard, who 
did not observe her very attentively. The- 
resa’s face wore a terrified and startled ex- 
pression, but, with national caution, she did 
not tell a foreigner anything not already 
known by the other. Finally she whisper- 
ed, hurriedly, 

“ The princess is coming to see you, sign- 
ora.” 

Mrs. Bayard stiffened perceptibly. Pos- 
sibly the old princess had awakened to a 
sense of the injustice of her conduct. The 
princess appeared, visibly excited and agi- 
tated. 

“Where is Celia?” she demanded, ab- 
ruptly. 

“I have not seen my daughter to-day,” 
replied Mrs. Bayard, in her most dignified 
manner. 

The old princess scrutinized her suspi- 
ciously with her black eyes, and rested her 
hand on the back of the proffered chair. 
The teeth of little Theresa, who had paused 
outside the door to listen, chattered in her 
head with fright. 

“ Where is she ?” said the princess, in a 
more imperious tone. 

“Really, I cannot inform you,” said Mrs. 
Bayard, with a little acidity in her voice. 
“Doubtless she is' at the Cascine by this 
time.” 


177 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

The old princess frowned. 

“ You should have prevented it, and any 
possible scandal. I was too much occupied 
in preparing my son for a journey to think 
of her. The folly of going out to-day !” 

“Andrea has gone on a journey 1” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Bayard, in dismay. “Oh, 
what has happened ?” 

“ He has fought a duel, and killed the 
Baron Blek,” said the princess, in a hard 
tone. 

Little Theresa, outside the door, crossed 
herself devoutly. 

“ Good God ! Andrea has killed the bar- 
on !” Mrs. Bayard’s knees bent under her, 
and she sunk down in her chair shuddering. 

“ The duel was perfectly honorable,” said 
the princess. 

At this moment Celia rushed into the 
boudoir, carrying the little prince in her 
arms ; she had met the tonne on the stair- 
way. 

“ Oh, I feared it was the baby !” said 
Celia, with a hysterical sob, also sinking 
into a chair. 

Then the old princess told her: it was 
her mission. Mrs. Bayard had hidden her 
face in her handkerchief, and burst into 
tears. 

Celia listened in silence, and with a 
stricken expression. The old princess 
took the child from her arms, and restored 
it to the tonne: Celia did not resist. The 
older woman even smoothed her hair with 
a caressing touch, and removed her hat. 
The young princess did not heed her, but 
sat gazing at vacancy. 

Later, Mrs. Bayard, restored to activity 
by this alarming silence and frozen apathy 
on the part of her daughter, led her to the 
chamber she had occupied before her mar- 
riage, adjoining her own. 

“What was the cause of the duel?” in- 
quired Celia, in a sharp tone. 

“ Oh, a quarrel about cards, darling,” re- 
plied her mother, soothingly. 

12 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

“He has committed murder!” added 
Celia, in a whisper, and with a frightened 
glance around. 

Her cheeks had grown crimson, and her 
eyes were very bright. 

“ Hush !” said Mrs. Bayard, with a shud- 
der. 

Celia suffered herself to be put to bed by 
her fond mother, but refused to eat the 
delicacies brought her. At midnight si- 
lence reigned in the palace. The histori- 
cal rooms were deserted. Mrs. Bayard sat 
watching her child, with the lamp shaded, 
in hopes that sleep would bring restora- 
tion to a delicate organization which had 
sustained a rude shock. She no longer 
thought of herself. 

She was startled by the voice of Celia. 
The latter had raised herself on her arm; 
her hair was tossed back in confusion, her 
cheeks were still flushed, and her eyes fixed 
on the door. Mrs. Bayard spoke to her 
soothingly, but Celia no longer recognized 
her own mother. 

“ I knew you would come !” she cried, 
in the piercing tones of delirium. “ I have 
waited for you, and I am not afraid.” 

Indeed, a ghostly shape had entered that 
door, unperceived by the watcher, never to 
quit it during long weeks of illness — the 
man of the portrait with the wild black 
hair— the first Andrea del Giglio. Celia’s 
lips, perpetually moving, never mentioned 
her husband or child, or even the dead 
baron, but always accosted the enemy, the 
lord of the Apennine Pass, who stood at 
the foot of her bed, looking at her. The 
weaiy and monotonous strains of opera 
music fell on her ear — music without begin- 
ning or end, like the echo of a shell; and 
she saw the debutante in her boy’s dress 
on the stage, whom she had scarcely no- 
ticed at the time. These were the two 
forms that peopled her delirium. The daily 
events of life were suspended or obliter- 
ated for the American princess. 


.78 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


BOOK V. 

HANNAH STOUT SPEAKS. 


CHAPTER I. 
fra Angelico’s angels. 

The monastery of St. Mark wore that 
peaceful and holy aspect so attractive to 
all visitors, irrespective of creed. The day 
was Sunday, and a soft rain was falling. 

A lady, plainly attired, and veiled, enter- 
ed the first cloister with a slow step and 
an appearance of grave meditation. Once 
in the cloister, she threw back her veil, 
breathed a sigh of relief, and looked about 
her. The face of this visitor was pale and 
wasted, as if from recent illness, while her 
eyes, deeply shadowed by their long lashes, 
had a dreamy and at the same time serious 
expression, as of a person recently awaken- 
ed from profound sleep, to whom familiar 
objects are still unreal. Her movements 
were languid, and betrayed indifference. 

The rain descended on the grass of the 
little square, and the shrubs shed abroad 
their fragrance in the warm atmosphere. 
Above the angle of wall the brown belfry 
of the adjacent church was visible, rising 
against the sky, where the fleecy clouds 
drifted and parted, revealing spaces of 
blue heavens. Above the entrance -door 
St. Peter, martyr, gazed down, his finger 
on his lip, enjoining silence. The warning 
would seem unnecessary ; it was not a place 
for loud and heedless talk. The silence 
of the spot was in harmony with the sound 
of bells, the falling rain, the clouded sky. 
A fresco at the extremity of the colonnade 
represents the Saviour rising from the sep- 
ulchre ; at another angle St. Dominic wel- 
comes the Lord to the guest-chamber of 
the monastery — a truly beautiful sentiment ; 
and between w r ere all those later delinea- 
tions of the pictured career of St. Antoni- 
nus, in scenes of early Florentine history. 

The lady was familiar with St. Mark’s 
monastery, and she loved it. The emblems 
of earlier faith here depicted formed an 
element of her religion, embraced with the 
ardor of a convert. St. Mark’s is the his- 


torical shrine of the Dominicans, as Santa 
Croce belonged to the gray brotherhood 
of St. Francis. She saw here the two 
monks inseparably associated with the 
place. A mild, delicate face seemed to 
gaze at her from the shadow of a dark 
hood — the face of Fra Angelico, who dwelt 
in the twilight of cells, and prayed to 
heaven for strength to paint his saints and 
martyrs. A harsh, stern face was turned 
from her, presenting a resolute profile — 
that of Savonarola, prior of the order. One 
trod the flowers of life — his weapon, the ar- 
tist’s brush ; the other, fierce, cruel thorns, 
and did not flinch — his weapon, the scourge. 
The world has no greater contrast to offer 
than the two monks who once haunted these 
cloisters, nor can the influence of either be 
said to have wholly passed away. 

The American princess — for it was she — 
felt deep reverence and sympathy for the 
aim of each in her heart. She had risen 
from a bed of illness, and the events of 
daily existence returned to her remem- 
brance slowly. She w r as incapable of sur- 
prise, and not much interested in anything. 
When her husband had first presented him- 
self at her side, the circumstance had seem- 
ed natural. She had given him her hand 
listlessly, and without asking any questions. 
When her child, daily growing in beauty 
and strength, had been brought to her, she 
played with the soft curls on the little head, 
but yielded to no maternal raptures of pride. 
She looked calmly at the old princess and 
the blooming Marianna with the abstrac- 
tion of one whose thoughts are elsewhere. 
It was only when she observed irrepressi- 
ble tears flowing down the cheeks of her 
own mother that she was moved to emo- 
tion. 

“ Has anything happened to trouble you, 
mamma?” she had inquired, with a won- 
dering look. 

“Nothing, my child, except the delight 
of seeing you well again,” sobbed Mrs. 
Bayard. 


179 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

Yes, Celia was convalescent, and equal 
to resuming her place in the household 
once more. Two resolutions were marked 
in her conduct : she would not return to 
the historical rooms, and she refused to 
drive in the Cascine. She secluded herself 
in the fine old garden, where, if she encoun- 
tered Marianna with the princeling, she 
played with her child. At other times 
she did not inquire for her son. This in- 
sensibility shocked Mrs. Bayard, who said 
to the prince, 

“We must give her a little time to re- 
cover ; she has been very ill.” 

The prince made no objection. Since 
his return from the journey he had taken, 
after the duel with Baron Blek, he was ab- 
sent much of the time. Celia had pursued 
her own course for six weeks, and showed 
no intention of changing her resolution. 
If her mother urged her to drive out in the 
country or up to Fiesole, she turned pale 
and shook her head. If she happened to 
be seated in the garden when one of the 
prince’s equipages rattled out of the court, 
she gazed obstinately in an opposite di- 
rection. 

“ He killed the baron !” she would whis- 
per to the flowers that swayed in the sum- 
mer breeze. “You may call it a duel if 
you choose. The baron was a good man.” 

For the rest, she slept and ate like a 
child. 

On this Sunday noon the prince, who had 
just risen, happened to glance through his 
window. He beheld his wife, plainly dress- 
ed and veiled, cross the garden, and disap- 
pear through a door in the wall used by 
the servants. Alone and on foot, Celia 
had at length emerged from the boundaries 
of her home. “ Where is she going ?” he 
thought, suppressing a yawn in his surprise. 

His face darkened, and he also traversed 
the garden. 

Celia had heard the bell of St. Mark’s 
Campanile, and she had been moved by 
swift impulse to obey its summons. In- 
stead of entering the church, however, she 
sought the low door in the adjacent wall 
leading to the cloister and monastery. A 
bruised spirit and a heavy heart are alone 
capable of appreciating San Marco. 

Celia flitted into the deserted refectory, 
stately and vast, with the pulpit in the 
wall — where a monk once read edifying 
homilies while his brethren ate — and the 
fresco at the end, representing St. Dominic 
and his followers seated at an empty ta- 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

ble, to which charming angels bring food. 
She lingered in the small refectory, where 
Ghirlandaio’s “Last Supper” is disfigured 
with patches of damp, and Judas alone 
occupies one side of the table. She seat- 
ed herself in the dark chapter-house before 
Fra Angelico’s “Crucifixion,” and her lips 
moved without sound. Did she pray ? 
Then she sought the long flight of stone 
steps. A party of tourists were descending — 
the chief travellers of the universe — speak- 
ing the English tongue and carrying away 
the treasures of St. Mark’s, especially dear 
to the feminine heart, angels with trumpets 
on little gilded panels. The princess sur- 
veyed them with an absent glance, and be- 
gan to climb the steps. 

A door opened before her. She had reach- 
ed Fra Angelico’s realm of angels, in these 
long, cold corridors with the roof of dark 
wood overhead. A wave of color on the 
right revealed the fluttering silk banners 
of the Dante room, the rainbow emblems 
of Florentine patriotism, grouped here since 
the erection of the statue in the square of 
Santa Croce. On the left a second wave 
of color emanated from the jewelled forms 
and golden background of a collection of 
copies, for sale — rays, often feeble enough, 
of the sun of Fra Angelico’s creative genius. 

Celia sought that cluster of little cells, 
in a remote corner, so familiar to all vis- 
itors as the abode of the Reformer. Pale 
frescoes by Fra Bartolomeo flank the 
marble tablet on which is recorded that 
Pope Leo X. granted ten years indulgence 
to persons visiting the inner cell. The se- 
rene “ Madonna and Child ” of Fra Bartolo- 
meo, friend and disciple of Savonarola, 
guard the vindication of a later pontiff. 

Celia moved on. She saw a worn cruci- 
fix suspended on the wall of the next cell ; 
the rosary, the hair shirt, and books cover- 
ed with microscopic writing, treasured in 
glass cases. Here a great soul beat itself 
against the bars of its cage, circumstance — 
vainly anticipating the return of miracle- 
working — sadly expectant of the reaction 
from the madness of enthusiasm which had 
led Florence, moved by his magnetic elo- 
quence, to cast jewels, pictures, precious 
books into the fire — to the scoffing mob 
which would, later, drag him to the stake. 
Her glance strayed to the third cell, where 
hangs the curious old picture of the burn- 
ing in the Piazza della Signoria, with re- 
cording angels above unfurling their scroll 
for the verdict of posterity. The monk 


180 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


Savonarola slept in this tiny nook, defying 
the power of princes, and dreaming impos- 
sible things, for which he was to reap the 
whirlwind of the Inquisition. 

“ He knew how to suffer,” thought the 
pale young woman, absorbed in her own 
reveries. Then she touched the worn cru- 
cifix with her finger. “I should like to 
own this,” she murmured, aloud. 

The old custodian smiled. 

“Many persons would like to own the 
Frate’s crucifix, madame the princess,” he 
said. 

Celia started, as if surprised, then she 
gave him some money and went out. 

In the corridor she met John Winter. 
The young man was rambling here, also in 
a meditative humor. His face was grave, 
repressed, a trifle worn. He had been 
studying Fra Angelico’s “Christ;” that 
divine shape, full of celestial sweetness, 
which is yet a spirit and without human 
substance. John decided, after earnest 
contemplation, that he should never dare 
to attempt this subject in marble, although 
actuated by none of the religious rever- 
ence inspired in Celia, a recent convert to 
Catholicism. Then he had perceived the 
American princess when it was too late to 
avoid greeting her. 

Celia quietly held out her hand. John 
Winter had come to the side of her car- 
riage on the bright winter day, and warn- 
ed her to go home. * In her heart she 
thanked him. She signified that he was 
to accompany her, by continuing the con- 
versation, and he moved back along the 
gallery. As if by mutual consent, their 
talk was confined to the scene about them. 
Celia refrained from those allusions to John 
Winter’s profession which are more often 
irksome than gratifying to an artist. There 
were long intervals of silence, even in this 
slight interchange of thought. Each was 
aware of some subtle sympathy in the 
other. 

“ How she is changed by illness,” thought 
John, and refrained from looking at his 
companion in the fear that she might read 
the thought in his eyes. 

The charm of San Marco does not con- 
sist in a pilgrimage to the cell which grant- 
ed pontificial absolution. Celia rejoiced to 
escape from Savonarola’s clouded atmos- 
phere to Fra Angelico's paradise of an- 
gels, and was purified by the contempla- 
tion. 

Here in these cells, once a dormitory, the 


artist-monk completed a whole gallery of 
his works by painting a fresco on the wall 
at the head of each bed. All this celestial 
company is already numbered among the 
redeemed, and have tasted of heavenly 
fruits. The peaceful sweetness of shadowy 
faces, the slender etherealized forms, the 
lightness of movement, all betray the an- 
gelic hosts; and Christ is everywhere de- 
picted as a soul, whether shrinking back 
from the touch of an awe-struck Magda- 
len, feeding his disciples at table with pa- 
ternal tenderness, bursting the gates of 
Had6s with an appearance of haste to res- 
cue the dead, or crowning his mother, that 
Madonna in filmy white draperies, who 
thus becomes the emblem of the lily in 
womanhood. 

Celia found heavenly shapes everywhere 
in the old monastery, on this day of sum- 
mer rain ; they hovered in the Annuncia- 
tions of the corridors, and trod the chords 
of music in the great choir- books of the 
library — in robes of crimson, purple, and 
blue, gold-embroidered, and the pale vio- 
let hues of the “ Resurrection.” 

Below was the cloister, where Savona- 
rola preached to eager multitudes when the 
church could no longer hold them. Above 
the door St. Peter, martyr, still guardian of 
the spot, looks down with his finger on his 
lip. 

When John Winter was taking leave of 
the princess, he perceived the Prince del 
Giglio. The latter bowed profoundly, a 
slight smile on his face. John flush- 
ed, and appeared confused. He hastened 
away, muttering some awkward words 
of greeting, and glad to escape. He had 
not encountered the prince since the night 
of adventure in the loggia. He resented 
the necessity of returning the nobleman’s 
possibly ironical greeting. Had he been 
aware that the American princess frequent- 
ed the monastery of St. Mark he would not 
have come, because he despised her hus- 
band, and yet the hour spent here with 
her had moved him to many softened 
thoughts. 

The prince walked away beside his wife. 
The apathetic calmness of her expression 
had not changed at perceiving him. A 
transient gleam of annoyance alone was 
visible; tears trembled on her eyelashes; 
she would have wept in those deserted cor- 
ridors above stairs but for the presence of 
John Winter. 

“ The garden gate is locked. You will 


181 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

be obliged to enter the front gate,” said 
the prince, in his dryest tone. 

Celia did not reply. Her indifference 
irritated him; the eloquent dark eyes, so 
fascinating to women, flashed. 

“Do you walk out often alone to meet 
this sculptor ?” he inquired, in a low tone. 

Celia turned to look at him ; a flush of 
color dyed her pale face. 

“To meet John Winter? That is too 
absurd !” she said. 

“I have ordered the carriage for the 
Cascine this afternoon,” pursued the hus- 
band, observing her narrowly. 

“ I cannot go there !” she replied, with a 
shudder. 

“Absurd !” said the prince. 

But he made no further comment. That 
afternoon the absence of the princess was 
the less remarked from the fact that the 
prince drove his four-in-hand team, and 
the ladies decided he had never looked 
equally handsome. 

That evening an event transpired in the 
Giglio palace which spread consternation 
from roof to cellar. The old porter in the 
yellow waistcoat, although not a devout 
believer, crossed himself when he heard of 
it. The old princess, in commemoration 
of some anniversary, desired to pray in the 
private chapel at nine o’clock. She re- 
quested her daughter-in-law to accompany 
her. The prince had not yet gone out, 
and was playing on the piano — his favorite 
after-dinner amusement. Celia traversed 
the historical rooms to the narrow stair- 
case opening out of the nuptial chamber. 
Her slender form had now a shadowy as- 
pect, more in harmony with these sombre 
apartments than when she came here a 
bride. She avoided the portrait of the 
first Andrea del Giglio. Th§ dark and un- 
wholesome influences of her home, her sur- 
roundings, and even of her religion, retard- 
ed a return to healthy animation in this 
girl of another race. 

The old princess was already kneeling 
before the altar of the little chapel when 
Celia entered. She paused and looked 
around. The candles lighted on the altar 
shed a feeble ray on the shrine of the Ma- 
donna, the frescoes, and the Jerusalem 
sarcophagus. She saw herself, full of cu- 
riosity and hope, entering here with her 
mother on Holy Thursday, and the prince, 
in his furred coat, approaching to kneel 
beside her. How long ago all this had 
happened ! 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

She moved forward to the altar. The 
silk curtains of the shrine vibrated slightly, 
and the wooden statue of the Madonna fell 
forward from its sanctuary ! 

The old princess uttered a piercing 
shriek and covered her face with her hands. 
The sacred image had fallen, and without 
human aid. What misfortune might not 
this accident presage to the possessor ? 

Celia, startled by the superstitious terrors 
of her mother-in-law as much as by the ca- 
tastrophe, hastened to her assistance. Hys- 
terics had succeeded the first cry of alarm, 
and the old princess continued to crouch 
before the altar, weeping, and distracted 
with grief. 

The wooden image remained where it 
had fallen. 

“ Misfortune !” groaned the princess, her 
features convulsed. “The Madonna never 
fell before in all the years she has belonged 
to my family.” 

Celia fled in pursuit of the prince. He 
no longer played on the piano, but stood 
near a lamp reading a note. This note 
had just been brought to him by little 
Theresa, and delivered with mysterious and 
stealthy adroitness. 

“ Quick ! Your mother — is — in the chap- 
el : the Madonna has fallen ! panted Celia, 
leaning against the door to recover breath. 

The prince, bewildered and frightened 
by such a summons, believing that his 
mother, perhaps, had been hurt, ran toward 
the narrow staircase. 

Celia paused to recover herself before 
following him. Her glance fell on a crum- 
pled paper dropped by the prince. Me- 
chanically she stooped to recover it. This 
was the note brought by Theresa— one of 
those billets written by the Baroness Olga, 
always with reference to reaching the eye 
of Celia, and rendering her jealous. 

A spasm contracted the features of the 
American princess, not unlike that just wit- 
nessed on the face of her mother-in-law in 
the chapel, and her hand trembled. A 
whole world seemed to unroll before her 
burning eyes. She saw at last clearly: 
the duel fought by her husband had not 
been induced by a quarrel over cards, but 
by the coquetries of the Baroness Olga. 
When the prince had calmed his mother, 
and led her to her own rooms, he returned, 
and found his wife still pausing beside the 
table, with the note held between her fin- 
gers. She looked at him in silence, with 
an expression habitual to her since her ill- 


182 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

ness, of seeking to solve something which 
she did not understand. 

He drew away the note quietly, tore it 
into bits, and lighted the fragments in a 
brazier. 

“The note is from the Baroness Blek,” 
said Celia, in a strange and husky voice. 

“ Che, che ! She writes in the same 
vein to at least a dozen men,” replied the 
prin'ce, with a contempt for his fair corre- 
spondent which was unfeigned. 

“I thought you loved me,” said Celia, 
after another pause. 

She did not weep, or rave, or faint away. 
Her stillness rendered her husband uncom- 
fortable. 

“ I adore you !” he answered, kissing her 
hand. 

Then he added, haughtily and menac- 
ingly, 

“Almost as much as does M. John Win- 
ter, to whom you give rendezvous at San 
Marco on Sunday. If the warning is not 
too indiscreet, permit me to remind you, 
madame, that you are the Princess del 
Giglio.” 

“ Do not make me hate you !” rejoined 
Celia, in a still lower tone, and turning 
white to the lips. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE SNOW-WOMAN. 

A recently completed work occupied 
the place of honor in the studio of Abraham 
Blackwood, and for the second time he in- 
vited the public to examino a production 
of his pupil, John Winter. Accordingly, 
the public had flocked to his door with 
commendable interest. Mrs. General Jef- 
ferson and Miss Bevis-Smith were not 
among the number, as on a former occasion, 
but Count Guigione appeared, fresh and 
smiling, and complimented John on his 
work ; Mrs. Bayard had absented herself, 
possibly because of some awkward remi- 
niscence as regards the Iris; nor did the 
American princess honor him by her pres- 
ence. 

A stranger w^as there, however, destined 
to exercise a powerful influence on John 
Winter’s future life, by means of connect- 
ing links of circumstances. This stranger 
was the father of the little dead children 
whose portrait busts had been John Win- 
ter’s second commission, and son-in-law of 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

the eccentric old gentleman in the brown 
wig. He had looked attentively at the 
Pandora, and demanded a photograph of 
the statue. 

At length the crowd ebbed away, and 
John was left alone. He still leaned 
against the wall with his arms folded, con- 
templating his work. The statue had been 
perfected through months of labor, and rose 
before him in the matchless purity of new- 
ly-wrought marble. Pandora, slender, mod- 
est, graceful, bent her head to look at the 
magic box she held. In the twilight John 
saw what had been veiled from his audi- 
ence: Pandora was the snow -woman of 
the brook. He moved forward, clasped the 
pedestal with his arm, and kissed the lit- 
tle naked feet of the Pandora, as he had 
once saluted the bust of the princess when 
completed. Pandora was precious to him 
above all things now. 

The old sculptor was radiant with satis- 
faction. He publicly abdicated a place to 
his pupil which he had never successfully 
filled himself, and greater sacrifice cannot 
be demanded of such a man. He looked 
about for Albert Dennis in the throng of 
visitors in vain. Albert Dennis had quitted 
Florence abruptly, and there was a rumor 
that he had left many debts behind him. 
Rumor still further stated that he had aban- 
doned sculpture in favor of coloring, and 
that he was studying painting in one of the 
European capitals of art. The foreman, An- 
gelo, had presented himself in humble and 
deprecating attitude on the old sculptor’s 
threshold one day, demanding, work, and 
his once indulgent master had driven him 
away with furious anger. 

“ This is no place for traitors !” he had 
shouted, with a menacing gesture. 

Angelo had fled, but later he appealed 
to John Winter in the street. There was 
no bread in the house, he had affirmed, 
and Albert Dennis had made him such 
golden promises. John had given him 
some money, and passed on. The occa- 
sion was favorable for a sermon on the in- 
evitable fruits of ingratitude; but John 
was not a preacher, and his injunctions 
would have filtered through the mind of 
the delinquent Angelo like water through 
a sieve. 

Several weeks later a letter arrived from 
London, written by John’s patron, the son- 
in-law of the little old gentleman in the 
wig. He stated that, on reflection, he had 
decided to purchase the Pandora ; that as 


183 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


he was about to sail for America from Liv- 
erpool, the statue, when entirely finished, 
could be shipped from Leghorn to New 
York, and forwarded to him in the west- 
ern city where he lived. The old sculptor 
patted his pupil on the shoulder. 

“ Behold the first smile of fortune !” he 
exclaimed. 

John’s face clouded. 

“ All alone !” he murmured. “ The Pan- 
dora to make the voyage unprotected? 
No; I must accompany her. The ship 
might founder.” 

Abraham Blackwood laughed heartily. 

“Would your presence save her on the 
wreck ?” he demanded. 

John looked at him with a frowning 
and troubled glance. Then the old sculp- 
tor resumed his usual tone of Mentor. 

“ The idea is not a bad one,” he said. 
“ A visit to America with your first statue 
might win you friends.” 

“ Oh, it is not that !” cried John. “ She 
must not go alone. Sailors are rude, 
often.” 

The old sculptor smiled. 

“You could take the Anchor steam-ship 
at Leghorn with your precious charge. 
You might petition the captain to allow 
you to act as sentinel, day and night, 
before the box containing the statue. 
The chances are the crew would think 
you mounted guard over a dead person, 
though.” 

John Winter’s eye kindled with a sud- 
den resolution. 

“ Yes, I will go, and take something else 
beside Pandora.” 

He rose, and began to search among 
the papers of his desk with visible agita- 
tion. 

“Another study ?” hazarded his friend. 

“No; a monument for my own poor 
mother,” said John, in a voice which trem- 
bled. 

The old sculptor was silent ; but he went 
to his sanctum, and brought out all the 
sketches of mural tablets and tombs which 
he had ever designed in his long career. 
These he placed before John without com- 
ment, and left him undisturbed. 

A day came when the master and pupil 
stood together on the quay at Leghorn 
bidding each other farewell, as they had 
stood on a former occasion. Both recall- 
ed the circumstance. How changed were 
their respective places ! The boy had out- 
grown the man. Pandora and another 


huge case had been already consigned to 
the ship’s hold. 

“ You will return in a few months, my 
boy. You will sigh for the Campanile of 
our city in absence,” said Abraham Black- 
wood. 

The steamer moved away, freighted with 
John and his hopes. 

The voyage to the other Mediterranean 
ports was full of charm, and not devoid of 
incident. John had been informed that a 
companion would share his cabin later, in 
the person of an American who had tele- 
graphed from Palermo. At Naples a large 
party came on board. This unexpected 
invasion was occasioned by the change of 
plan of the principal lady, who was at 
all times capricious. The new passengers 
were members of an opera troupe, bound 
for the other side of the world, and the 
prima donna had signified her intention of 
embarking at this port instead of taking a 
long and fatiguing railway journey to a 
more northern one. Fortunate it was that 
the prudent stranger at Palermo had al- 
ready secured the second berth in John’s 
cabin; otherwise a fat Italian barytone or 
a slender tenor would have invaded the 
place. The pi'ima donna , a large woman, 
with many artificial flowers in her bonnet, 
and black ringlets hanging down her back, 
saluted the captain, a brisk and florid lit- 
tle Scotchman, with the grace of a tragedy 
queen. She rolled her fine eyes in the di- 
rection of John Winter, and allowed him 
to offer his hand to assist her on deck. 

John experienced that vague curiosity in 
his companions characteristic of a person 
about to embark on a long voyage. The 
prima donna was followed by a meek and 
non-professional husband, such as often ap- 
pears as the consort of the queens of song ; 
two children ; a young governess in black, 
carrying a large cage which contained a 
parrot ; and the satellites of her company, 
all gesticulating and talking at the same 
moment. 

The young governess in black was Jus- 
tinia Ritchie ! John Winter, overwhelmed 
by this discovery, made a step toward her, 
but she had already vanished down the 
companion-way, carrying the bird-cage. 
Justinia here, on the same ship, bound for 
America ? what was she doing with these 
people? was she already married? John 
remained on deck. No; he would not 
follow her. Never had a woman treated 
the man who loved her more unjustly. He 


184 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


had not seen or heard a word of intelli- 
gence, good or evil, of Justinia since the 
night of her debut at the Pergola Theatre. 
Such conduct was inexcusable. If she had 
been fortunate, she should have taken the 
trouble to inform him ; and if she had met 
with misfortune, he was the first person to 
whom she should have appealed. He had 
believed her lost to him forevel. Now 
they were destined to make a voyage on 
the same ship. Was he glad or sorry? 
John could not decide, in his first sur- 
prise certainly his heart beat more quick- 
ly because of the propinquity of Justinia. 
He went forward, ostensibly to watch the 
movements of the crew, and he refused 
to descend to the cabin for dinner. 

Toward sunset, when Naples was already 
disappearing, he returned to the passen- 
gers’ deck a little more composed. At the 
same moment Justinia emerged from the 
cabin, and they met face to face. Further 
evasion was impossible. 

“John Winter!” she exclaimed, chang- 
ing color. 

“Yes. We are to make a voyage to- 
gether, it seems, in spite of ourselves. I 
promise not to intrude on you more than 
is necessary,” said John, in a gloomy tone. 

Justinia remained silent for a moment, 
then she held out her hand. John took 
the hand with a softened expression. 

“Ah, the trouble you have made me!” 
sighed Justinia. “I went to Rome in 
search of the kind old gentleman, Mr. Tem- 
ple, who had befriended me. I wished to 
explain all to him, for my voice had broken. 
You did not give me his address, but I 
hoped to find him. I never found him! 
Oh, John Winter, there was no such per- 
son at Rome !” 

John was confounded. What a harvest 
the falsehood of an imaginary patron who 
aided Justinia had wrought ! 

“ It is true,” he said, soberly. “ If you 
had not avoided me as your worst enemy, 
all could have been explained. I feared 
you would not accept aid from your neigh- 
bor of the loggia.” 

Justinia blushed, and her eyes fell. 

“ My poor family pride !” she murmured. 

The sonorous voice of the prima donna 
was heard summoning her. Justinia start- 
ed nervously, and prepared to obey. 

“ You do not ask me what my actual po- 
sition is now,” she said, hurriedly. 

“No,” replied John, simply. 

A sudden wave of color dyed her whole 


face and neck ; she raised her eyes to the 
young man’s with a humid, grateful, and 
tender eloquence of expression. 

“ God bless you, John, for your faith in 
me!” she whispered. “I will explain all 
to you later; and oh, I am so glad to see 
you again !” 

Then she disappeared, leaving John thrill- 
ed with sudden happiness by the new light 
in her dark eyes, which he had never before 
witnessed. 

“ Justinia loves me !” he confided to the 
warm atmosphere, the blue sky, and the 
glancing waves through which the steamer 
ploughed her way. 

The passenger waiting at Palermo was a 
thin and wiry man in a black coat, much 
bronzed by an eastern sun. He collided 
with John Winter in the cabin door-way, 
such was the energy of his movements, and 
briskly apologized. John found himself in 
the presence of Mr. Carpenter Jones. The 
latter recognized him readily, and shook 
hands. He manifested a lively interest in 
the old sculptor, and inquired the object 
of John’s visit to America. 

“And little Celia Bayard,” added Mr. 
Carpenter Jones — poking his umbrella and 
bag under the berth as an economy of space 
indispensable in such narrow quarters — 
“ how does she get along ?” 

“ I do not know : she has been ill,” said 
John. 

Mr. Carpenter Jones darted a sharp glance 
at him while resuming an upright position. 

“ I would have run up to Florence for a 
day, if not pressed for time. Does Mrs. 
Bayard still live in that God-forsaken old 
palace ? I want to know ! A woman with 
enough money to afford all modern improve- 
ments. Well!” 

“You have visited Egypt again?” in- 
quired John. 

“ Since I saw you I have been through 
Lapland, Russia, and even Siberia. I don’t 
mind telling you that I am interested in 
furs. Now I am going home, to remain 
long enough in my own country to ascer- 
tain, at least, who is alive or dead.” 

Mr. Carpenter Jones made this statement 
with an expression of great firmness. 

The new passenger was speedily on 
friendly terms with all on board. Not only 
did he smoke cigars with the captain and 
mate with much affability, but he gained 
the good graces of the prima donna by the 
gallantry of his bearing— far more than John 
Winter had done. His interest in Justinia 


185 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

had been manifested from the first, and 
John was moved to confide in this eccen- 
tric being during the long hours spent to- 
gether. The prima donna had taken Jus- 
tinia into her service six months before as 
an instructress of her children, and to teach 
her English. The singer desired to speak 
English; and the task of poor Justinia, who 
had dreamed of other things, was to con- 
verse and read with a mistress alternately 
tyrannical, stormy, and caressing in manner. 

The old tenor had obtained for her this 
humble post, after she had spent months of 
anxiety and trouble in Rome. The ambi- 
tion of the prima donna was to continue 
these instructions on board ship. John 
Winter observed her with disquiet and re- 
sentment. It is true the exactions of the 
prima donna and her children debarred 
Justinia from all association with the rest 
of the troupe, had she wished it, but this 
circumstance did not prevent her from be- 
ing one of them, in the opinion of John 
Winter. After a short stay at New York, 
the singer would fill engagements at Ha- 
vana and in South America. She had an- 
nounced her intention of taking Justinia 
with her. Was it poverty which led Jus- 
tinia to thus maintain herself, or did the 
stage still possess a fascination which in- 
duced her to linger at the wings, now that 
she could never again find a place before 
the foot- lights ? 

Mr. Carpenter Jones came to the rescue. 
He talked with the prima donna on the 
deck, puzzling her by his fluency of speech 
while flattering her with his attentions. By 
this means John and Justinia exchanged 
many confidences, while remaining silent 
as to the future. One night Mr. Carpenter 
Jones remarked, 

“ If I was a young man of spirit, I would 
not let a fine girl like that be dragged 
away by those people. The prima donna 
will fly into a rage some day and turn her 
out-of-doors.” 

“ How would you prevent it ?” inquired 
John. 

“ I would marry her when I landed at 
New York,” said Mr. Carpenter Jones, 
promptly. 

John did not resent this advice. On the 
contrary, he smiled, and gave Mr. Jones his 
hand. 

“ We shall see,” he rejoined. 

“I shall be there,” said Mr. Carpenter 
Jones, in a wiry manner. “ Where are you 
going ?” 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

“ To a western city with my statue,” said 
John. 

“ You are a native of the West, perhaps ?” 
pursued Mr. Jones. 

“No.” 

John had not mentioned the second ob- 
ject of his care in visiting America. Sure- 
ly the tomb of his mother, and the place 
where that mother had died, were none of 
Mr. Carpenter Jones’s affair. 

At length the steamer entered the har- 
bor of New York, bearing safely the Pan- 
dora to another shore. 

Justinia had become very quiet and 
thoughtful toward the close of the voyage, 
while the eyes of John Winter frequently 
strove to read her face. That tempest of 
rage which the sagacity of Mr. Carpenter 
Jones had prophesied burst forth unex- 
pectedly when John claimed the governess 
of the prima donna. The latter, already in 
a bad humor over the tidings that a rival 
actress had preceded her to the States, 
wreaked her anger on the head of Justinia 
until John led her beyond the sound of the 
powerful voice raised in tones of maledic- 
tion. Even the soothing influence of Mr. 
Carpenter Jones failed to lure her from 
the superior volubility of her native tongue 
into carefully- framed English sentences. 
Her black eyes flashed fire, and she turned 
her back on him disdainfully. 

Mr. Carpenter Jones followed the trem- 
bling Justinia ashore, chuckling softly to 
himself. 

John Winter and Justinia Ritchie were 
married. Mr. Carpenter Jones arranged 
all preliminary details, and attended the 
ceremony. Bride and bridegroom were 
alike without relatives and friends. A 
great city, absorbed in many rival interests, 
has never witnessed a more quiet and in- 
significant wedding. Then they departed 
for a bridal tour, which had for its object 
the safe delivery of the statue of Pandora 
to the rightful owner. 

Mr. Carpenter Jones looked after them 
with his most benevolent expression. 


CHAPTER III. 

A CUP OF TEA. 

One autumn morning the smoke ascend- 
ed, as usual, from the kitchen chimney of 
Nehemiah Methley’s homestead in the lit- 
tle village of Herringville. This smoke 

\ 


186 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


denoted to Squire Nuthall, and any neigh- 
bor interested, that Hannah Stort was 
preparing her solitary breakfast. Hannah 
Stort had risen at five o’clock, kindled 
her kitchen fire, and, when all preparations 
were completed, seated herself at the wood- 
en table beside the window where she had 
taken her meals alone for many years. The 
breakfast was arranged with a certain care : 
the red-herring was delicately broiled, the 
pat of golden butter was placed on a china 
dish, the bread of her own baking was cut 
in thin slices, while the large metal teapot 
smoked with the old woman’s favorite bev- 
erage. 

When Hannah had finished her break- 
fast she reversed her cup in the saucer, 
turned it three times, and consulted the 
prophetic dregs in the bottom. She did 
this almost mechanically, and from force 
of habit. Hannah Stort had thus consult- 
ed her teacup after breakfast for forty 
years. 

“I see a letter — and trouble,” she mused, 
speaking aloud, after the manner of people 
w T ho lead a solitary life. 

Her cat sat beside her on the rug, with 
its tail curled about its paws, having also 
finished a morning repast of milk. Then 
Hannah Stort rose, and went about her 
usual occupations. Having washed her 
cup and saucer, cleared her table, and 
placed the singing kettle in temporary re- 
tirement on the back of the fire, she sought 
a bunch of keys, a feather- duster, and a 
piece of chamois skin. Then she climbed 
the stairs, her cat following her with agile 
and feline bounds from step to step. Win- 
ter and summer, Sundays excepted, Han- 
nah Stort never failed to perform the same 
duty. She unlocked each door of the sec- 
ond story, and opened the windows to ad- 
mit air and sunshine. She swept, and 
scrubbed, and polished the floors, as if all 
the dead Methleys were about to return 
on a visit, and desired to occupy their 
former places in the homestead which 
would know them no more forever. 

The chamber of Mrs. Methley, the cabi- 
net containing the captain’s museum, were 
each visited in turn. Across the landing, 
the room where Nehemiali Methley died 
had been restored to the same order. The 
old house-keeper selected a small key on the 
bunch, with which she opened a cupboard 
high up in the wall beside the chimney. 
The cupboard contained a pile of books, 
and the tea-box which had attracted John 


Winter’s admiration so long ago, when he 
had intruded on the privacy of Hannali 
Stort, and been driven forth by her anger. 
She did not remove any of these articles, 
but contented herself with looking at them. 
Then she closed the cupboard, the win- 
dows, and the doors — her duty accomplish- 
ed for another day. 

This vigilance in guarding the house, 
confided to her protection alone, was the 
mainspring of Hannah Stort’s life. There 
was a stronger element of passion and de- 
fiance in her manner of gazing at these 
souvenirs than of reverence or softer regret 
for the dead. They belonged to her. Woe 
be to him who disputed her kingdom ! 

She descended the stair-way with the cat 
at her heels. A timid knocking on the 
kitchen door became audible. Hannah 
Stort opened it. A little girl stood out- 
side. 

“ What do you wish ?” demanded Han- 
nah Stort, in a peremptory tone. 

The little girl, in a pink calico gown and 
flapping sun-bonnet, with a small tin pail 
of butter on her arm, inspected the old 
house -keeper by raising a freckled face 
beneath the rim of limp sun-bonnet, and 
skipped back a pace on the gravel path. 
Children feared and disliked Hannah Stort. 
A solitary existence, old age, and a taciturn 
disposition converted her into a “ bogy ” of 
the cradle and tender years. 

“Well ?” she repeated, impatiently. 

The little girl, still staring with round 
eyes at the inhabitant of the Methley home- 
stead, fascinated, while aware of the peril 
of her mission, adjusted the tin pail on her 
arm, and pushed back her sun-bonnet. 

“ Squire Nuthall wants yer,” she said, in 
a shrill voice. 

“Squire Nuthall?” repeated Hannah 
Stort, slowly. 

“ Yes; he’s got a letter.” 

Her mission fulfilled, the little girl ran, 
with all the agility possible to a pair of 
very nimble feet, toward the Gothic cottage 
of the doctor. She was the doctor’s baby, 
whose tiny dimpled hand had been ad- 
mired by hungry- eyed John Winter, the 
sculptor. 

Hannah Stort took her sun-bonnet from 
a peg and went out. Squire Nuthall re- 
ceived her in his most official attitude as 
guardian of the United States mail. He 
gave her through the little window of his 
post-office a letter enclosed in an envelope 
of satin-soft paper, perfumed, with a mon- 


187 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


ogram on the back, and a foreign post- 
age-stamp. Such missives seldom passed 
through the hands of Squire Nuthall; lie 
had studied the stamp long through his 
spectacles, while the elaborate monogram 
confounded him. 

u I thought you might like to receive 
such a letter yourself,” said Squire Nuthall. 

“Yes,” replied Hannah Stort. 

She departed without delay, somewhat 
to the disappointment of the postmaster, 
and returned home. She recognized the 
handwriting of Mrs. Bayard. Entering the 
gate she observed that her favorite dahlia, 
growing near the parlor window, had es- 
caped from the stake which supported it, 
and paused to again fasten the vigorous 
plant. Then she went in, hung her sun- 
bonnet of gingham, green and white plaid, 
on its nail, found her spectacles reposing 
in their case on the Bible in the corner, pol- 
ished and placed them on her nose, and 
opened Mrs. Bayard’s letter without appre- 
hension. 

As she read, the face of Hannah Stort be- 
came gray — the awful pallor of old age — 
and her hands trembled. Mrs. Bayard’s 
letter was brief, but amicable in tone. The 
writer stated that she never intended re- 
turning to America, her daughter having 
married a foreign nobleman, and she had 
decided to sell the Methley homestead for 
the sum it would bring. She had been ad- 
vised to do so years before by a friend, but 
had refrained from fear of disturbing Han- 
nah Stort. Her agent had already been in- 
formed of her resolution, and would take 
all measures necessary. The collection of 
the captain and the books of Nehemiah 
Methley would be taken to Boston or New 
York for disposition at auction, while Han- 
nah might consider herself entitled to keep 
such of the household furniture as would 
make her comfortable elsewhere. Mrs. 
Bayard affirmed her intention of paying 
the yearly sum devoted to Hannah’s main- 
tenance, as usual. The house-keeper could 
board in the village, and be relieved of all 
further care. 

When the old woman had read and re- 
read this letter several times, she rose like 
one distraught. She went about the si- 
lent house w T aving her arms wildly, stamp- 
ing her foot, and talking aloud to the walls, 
the pictures, the very chairs. One would 
have said that her mind was unhinged, and 
that the crystal vase of reason guarding its 
secrets having sustained a rude shock, now 


suffered its contents to filter out drop by 
drop, indifferent to the public gaze. 

She would sell the homestead, this silly, 
wicked woman, who had the right! The 
captain’s treasures, Nehemiah Methley’s 
books, might be scattered in an auction- 
room to any casual purchaser ! The house- 
keeper could have forgiven Mrs. Bayard 
had she returned to dwell here — she would 
have willingly served her; but to sell the 
place ! Above all, to turn herself, a poor 
old woman, out-of-doors ! 

The kettle simmered on the fire ; twelve 
o’clock came and went without Hannah 
Stort thinking of dinner. She still roamed 
about the house, talking to herself. Fi- 
nally she paused in the sitting-room, and 
spread out a marvellous piece of needle- 
work, which represented the sole luxury of 
her meagre existence. 

For thirty years she had wrought these 
designs with her needle as a holiday recre- 
ation, the fruit of precious moments stolen 
between hours of work. The bed-covering, 
now nearly completed, composed of minute 
fragments of silk and velvet, patched to- 
gether in squares and points with micro- 
scopic stitches, revealed the history of 
Hannah Stort’s life. Such reveries as 
her youth had ever known were associated 
with its commencement. She had design- 
ed it for her own marriage at first; and 
later, when disappointment embittered ma- 
turity, she had destined the precious work 
for some distinguished lady of the land. 
The wife of one President after another 
had received in the Executive mansion this 
offering from Herringville, in the imagina- 
tion of Hannah Stort, but she had changed 
the fair recipient with every fresh patch 
added to her rainbow composition. 

She instinctively sought the sitting-room 
now, and unrolled the work, carefully pro- 
tected by tissue-paper. Her latest whim 
had been to present it to Celia Bayard, 
married to the foreign nobleman, and with 
this end she had ordered of Miss Toppe, 
the milliner, a white silk lining, to com- 
plete the luxurious cover, worthy of a state 
bed. 

“ She shall never have it now !” cried 
Hannah, tremulously. “ She shall own 
nothing, if I can prevent it.” 

At this moment she heard the heavy 
knocker rise and fall on the entrance-door. 
The blow echoed >yith a hollow sound 
through the house. Hannah StojT listened 
as if frozen with sudden terror. The knock- 


188 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


er had remained mute since the death of 
Nehemiah Methley. 

“I have tried to do what was right,” 
she said, feebly, and as if replying to some 
unseen person. “ God knows if I have suc- 
ceeded. I thought I knew better than 
you.” 

Who was she addressing? — was it her 
dead master ? The work escaped from her 
fingers and fell unheeded on the floor. She 
moved slowly to the door, and peered out 
of the glass at the side. 

A man stood on the step, gazing about 
him with the curiosity of a stranger. 

“ He’s the agent, come to sell the home- 
stead,” said the old woman, in a broken 
voice, the gray pallor again returning to 
her face. 

The knocker repeated its summons brisk- 
ly. Hannah drew back with a sullen ex- 
pression. 

“You can wait until I admit you,” she 
grumbled. 

She returned to the sitting-room, and 
trod on her needle-work without perceiv- 
ing it. She went to the window and open- 
ed it, preparatory to closing the wooden 
shutters. She would feign silence, deaf- 
ness, and death until she could fathom 
the motives of this visitor. To baffle him 
would be a sweet, if temporary revenge. 
A third peal of the knocker reverberated 
through the house. Hannah Stort hesi- 
tated, and then sought the kitchen, leav- 
ing the sitting-room window open. The 
neighbors would hear the knocking at her 
door. A desire to. preserve public appear- 
ances at all hazards had ever character- 
ized Hannah Stort. 

She again took her sun-bonnet and went 
around the side of the house, to confront 
swiftly the unwelcome intruder. At the 
moment of her approach the man on the 
door-step was peering, with an aspect of 
interest, through the key-hole. 

“ What do you wish ?” inquired Hannah, 
in her most sombre tone. 

The stranger turned, and approached 
her. 

“Good-morning,” he said, affably. “Mr. 
Nehemiah Methley lived here, I believe; 
but who occupies the house at present ?” 

“ I do,” said Hannah. 

“Ah! You are not a relative, because 
he left none, except a cousin who lives in 
Europe, I am told,” pursued the stranger, 
in a reflective tone. “ I have just arrived 
by the stage-coach, and — ” 


“ If you are the agent, you can come in,” 
said Hannah, abruptly. 

“ I am not an agent, but I will come in,” 
said the man, in nowise disconcerted by 
her forbidding manner. 

When he had entered the sitting-room 
his aspect'changed. 

“ Look here, my good woman, who are 
you ?” he demanded, in a lively tone, seat- 
ing himself opposite Hannah Stort without 
an invitation. 

“My name is Hannah Stort. I was 
brought up by Mrs. Methley in the family, 
and I have been house-keeper for years.” 

The old woman spoke with a sort of 
rage, which did not escape her companion, 
as if she hurled her credentials at him. 

“ My name is Carpenter Jones,” said the ^ 
visitor, evidently moved to a responsive 
confidence. “I was a friend of the late 
Nehemiah Methley, although I did not see 
him for a long time before his death. I 
have been absent in other parts of the 
world of late years, and have returned to 
San Francisco several times. Bless you ! 

I feel like Rip Van Winkle here in New 
England again. I met a man the other 
day in Chicago who gave me some partic- 
ulars’ of the death of Nehemiah Methley. 
It seems he made no will, and his proper- 
ty went to the next of kin — some family 
living in Europe. He did make a will 
fifteen years before his death, because I 
witnessed it ! Come, you must know about 
this will unless he destroyed it.” 

Mr. Carpenter Jones rested his hands on 
his knees, and looked at Hannah Stort. 

The tall clock ticked, and the cat walk- 
ed in from the kitchen, inspecting the vis- 
itor with impish green eyes. 

That morning a light vehicle had ap- 
proached Herringville over the hill in the 
opposite direction from the route of the 
stage-coach. This wagon was driven by 
John Winter, returning to his native vil- 
lage. He had left his wife in another 
town, although he had told Justinia the 
history of his mother with painful hesita- 
tion, and now he desired to place the mon- 
ument in the cemetery before returning to 
Italy. The heavy case was to meet him at 
Herringville, brought in a fishing-sloop. 

Arriving at the tavern, John had the 
horse cared for, and took dinner, after 
which he strolled forth to visit the village, 
where he would be unrecognized. He 
smiled at the remembrance of his own boy- 
hood with the riper experience of man- 


189 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE: 

hood. He determined to inspect every 
nook of his former home, which he would 
not have visited but for the filial duty of 
erecting a tomb to his mother’s memory 
such as the humble cemetery could not 
boast. In this consisted his pride. The 
first object which attracted his notice, on 
emerging from the tavern, was the old 
Methley homestead. There it stood, un- 
changed, this weather-beaten and venera- 
ble mansion, with the maple -trees still 
green in the summer sunshine about the 
gate, and the dahlias blooming in the flow- 
er-beds. How low and small it appeared, 
though ! How tiny was the village of Her- , 
ringville ! John paused at the gate; the 
sitting-room window was open. He won- 
dered if the captain’s tropical birds still 
hovered about the gorgeous Chinese fab- 
rics in the narrow chamber above -stairs. 
He approached the window, and looked 
in. 

He beheld Hannah Stort, seated, erect 
and stiff, opposite Mr. Cafpenter Jones. 
John’s surprise w T as so great at this unex- 
pected revelation of the interior of the 
room, that he cried, 

“ Mr. Jones ! what are you doing here ?” 

Mr. Carpenter Jones started to his feet. 
He was never surprised at unforeseen en- 
counters. Indeed, he had made it a rule, 
in his varied career, to live peaceably with 
his neighbor of all nations, because he nev- 
er knew where he might next encounter 
him. 

“Ah, there you are!” he rejoined, with- 
out a very clear idea of John Winter’s 
identity. “ You are my witness that Nelie- 
miah Methley made a will, disposed of his 
property, and I believe this old woman 
knows the truth about it.” 

Hannah Stort looked at John, standing 
in the window; she did not recognize 
him. She imagined this second visitor 
must be the agent, and she fancied herself 
taken in a trap. She also rose to her feet, 
and before either of her companions could 
utter a word, she said, hoarsely, 

“ Send for the minister /” 

A third spectator stood on the threshold 
of the kitchen. The appearance of Mr. 
Carpenter Jones knocking at the entrance- 
door of the Methley homestead, and the 
subsequent approach of John Winter from 
the tavern, had moved Squire Nuthall to 
quit his post of duty and investigate the 
mystery. On a previous occasion the door 
had been closed in his face; to-day his 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

progress was not opposed, even by the 
cat. 

“The postage on that letter was not 
right, Hannah,” he began, as an excuse 
for his presence. 

“ Send for the minister !” repeated 
Hannah. 

Squire Nuthall’s mouth and eyes opened 
simultaneously. 

“I will go for him myself,” said this 
zealous neighbor, and departed at a run. 

The ticking of the tall clock became 
again audible. John Winter prepared to 
withdraw more discreetly than he had 
advanced to the window. 

“Come in,” said Mr. Carpenter Jones; 
you will be necessary.” 

“Why?” inquired John. “The family 
affairs of Neliemiah Methley are nothing 
to me.” 

“True; but you heard me tax the old 
woman with a knowledge of the lost will. 
I am determined to sift this matter to the 
bottom,” replied Mr. Carpenter Jones. 

John vaulted in the window. Hannah 
Stort started, and glanced at him suspi- 
ciously. 

“ She does not know me,” thought John. 

Then the trio, gathered beneath this 
roof in a manner unforeseen by each at 
sunrise, awaited the arrival of the minister. 

Hannah Stort remained obstinately si- 
lent, even after the minister had appeared. 
John looked at him long. The minister 
was unchanged ; his tall, slender form might 
be a trifle more bent, as if the winds had 
shaken a feeble frame, and his hair more 
white, but the serenity of his face was un- 
troubled, and his eye clear. He bowed to 
the strangers as he entered, and approach- 
ed Hannah Stort. 

“ Do you wish to speak with me alone ?” 
he inquired, in a calm and reassuring voice. 

Hannah Stort shook her head. She was 
aware of the minister’s presence without 
looking at him, but her manner w T as devoid 
of respect. 

“What is the ‘good? Every one will 
know soon enough,” she said, in a harsh and 
grating tone. “This man has told the 
truth. You shall judge if I am a sinner 
or not. Perhaps the finger of God is in it 
all — coming to-day,” she added, feeling in 
her pocket for Mrs. Bayard’s letter. 

“The finger of God is in everything,” 
said the clergyman. 

Hannah Stort’s eyes became unsteady. 
Squire Nuthall had taken a chairs 


190 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

“ Nehemiali Metliley was a headstrong 
man. I have destroyed nothing, and I have 
stolen nothing. Was it not better his mon- 
ey should go to a respectable woman — his 
cousin, Mrs. Bayard — than to the boy John 
Winter ?” she said, at length. 

“To me!” cried John Winter, aghast. 

“ What had Mrs. Bayard to do with it ?” 
exclaimed Mr. Carpenter Jones. 

Hannah Stort, the clergyman, and Squire 
Nuthall gazed at the young man in stupe- 
fied astonishment. 

“You are John Winter!” gaid Hannah, 
in a quivering voice. 

The old hatred began to glow in her 
face, like the almost extinct embers of a 
fire beneath white ashes. 

“ Speak, if it is in your power to make a 
tardy restitution!” said the old minister, 
sternly. 

Hannah rose, and found her bunch of 
keys. 

“ Tell me what Mrs. Bayard has to do 
with it,” insisted Mr. Carpenter Jones, 
dragging John Winter after the others by 
the arm. 

“ Mrs. Bayard was the heiress of Nelie- 
miah Metliley,” said John, in bewilderment. 

“And I never dreamed of such a thing!” 
gasped Mr. Carpenter Jones. “Why did 
she not mention the name of the relative 
from whom her fortune was inherited ?” 

Squire Nuthall received no invitation to 
follow Hannah Stort up-stairs, and required 
none; he ascended with the rest, vibra- 
ting with curiosity. Hannah walked reso- 
lutely to the chamber of Neliemiah Meth- 
ley — which John Winter recalled with a 
shudder — opened the cupboard, and lift- 
ed down the decorated tea-box. The lid 
raised revealed the tray of feathery flowers 
and butterflies. Hannah removed the tray, 
and from the lining drew forth a paper. 

This paper she had found at the moment 
when John intruded on her in the closet, 
before the millionnaire was buried, and, 
with the instinct of a magpie, she had 
cleverly concealed it in the box. Hannah 
did not dare to destroy it. Even now she 
would not give the paper to John, but 
placed it in the hand of the minister. The 
latter read it aloud. It is doubtful if its 
true import was clear to the listener most 
interested. Squire Nuthall and Mr. Car- 
penter J ones, keenly alert, lost not a word, 
while John Winter, lost in a dream, heard 
what seemed to him a fabulous tale, with 
which he had no connection. 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

Dead Nehemiali Metliley was speaking 
after so many years, and in the very room 
where breath had quitted his body. Cap- 
tain Methley, liis brother, having been 
wrecked, as he believed, he executed this 
testament in favor of John Winter before 
any other claimant whatever. The better 
to establish the claim of this heir he stated 
that John was his own child, and that of 
Martha Winter, whom he had wronged by 
a broken promise of marriage. The resti- 
tution which he would not make living, he 
was willing to accord after his death. 

This was the substance of the document 
suppressed by Hannah Stort, with the cun- 
ning of an apparently upright nature, in 
jealous hatred of poor Martha Winter, 
whose place she would fain have taken as 
Mrs. Methley, and in later dread of this 
very reparation to John. 

When the minister had finished reading 
he folded the paper, and gave it to John. 
He then took Hannah Stort by the arm 
and led her into another room, closing the 
door. The other three slowly descended 
the stairs again. Squire Nuthall departed, 
having no further reason for delay. 

Mr. Carpenter Jones and John had am- 
ple leisure to scrutinize the will, and ex- 
plain matters in the sitting-room, before the 
minister joined them. 

“ I made a sea-voyage with you, and nev- 
er found out you were a native of Herring- 
ville,” said Mr. Carpenter Jones. “I vis- 
ited Mrs. Bayard in her palace, and did not 
know she was spending Nehemiah’s Meth- 
ley’s money on a lot of foreigners. Well, 
wonders will never cease ! She was talk- 
ing of buying a statue of you, when you 
owned the very gown she wore ! It was a 
costume of Catharine de’ Medici, if I recol- 
lect.” 

Mr. Carpenter Jones found his own sig- 
nature on the will, and recalled every cir- 
cumstance connected with it. He had met 
Nehemiali Methley that summer, in a re- 
mote nook of the State among the moun- 
tains. Mr. Jones had been on a trout- 
fishing tour among the brooks, while the 
capitalist came to inspect a saw-mill in a 
good lumber district. 

“ It was just like him to scent out a good 
investment up there,” said Mr. Jones. 

However, the purchase did not suit Mr. 
Methley. He was closeted with the law- 
yer of the place instead, and demanded of 
Mr. Carpenter Jones to witness a will he 
had just made. With his habitual secrecy, 


191 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


Nehemiali Methley had kept this will in 
his own possession, and never glanced at 
the boy, John Winter, after having made 
it. Hence the chagrin of his own lawyer, 
after his death, that he had no document 
to produce; hence the wrath and fright 
of Hannah Stort at discovering it in her 
master’s desk. 

Mr. Jones pointed out to John Winter 
that the little town must be visited, and 
each point substantiated in his favor. The 
old lawyer who had made the will was 
dead, Mr. Jones knew, and the other wit- 
nesses, Patrick Keegan and his wife, had 
moved away. He had been absent so many 
years that he had lost trace of events. The 
sudden death of Nehemiah Methley had 
frustrated his own ends. 

John Winter was dumb. Mr. Carpenter 
Jones decided that he was of a phlegmatic 
temperament, and slow of understanding. 

At length the minister appeared, wiping 
his brow. 

“ The woman, Hannah Stort, is a great 
sinner, but I doubt if I have persuaded her 
of her errors,” he said. “ However, she is 
in your hands if she has defrauded you.” 

“ In my hands,” repeated John Winter, 
mechanically. 

The minister had fought a severe battle 
of spiritual conflict above-stairs. Hannah 
Stort was stubborn, deaf, and blind with 
that most fatal form of human wickedness 
— a righteous self-delusion. Hannah went 
to meeting Sundays, and read her Bible at 
home, not only with an instinct of external 
piety but an internal conviction of sanc- 
tity. If she had allowed Mrs. Bayard to 
inherit by not producing the will — a meas- 
ure which left her in undisputed possession 
of the old house — she protected the re- 
spectability of the Methley name. Was 
she to snatch a vagrant from the road and 
set him in the place of the dead Nehemiah 
Methley? If she hated Martha Winter 
with the bitterest animosity of which her 
own nature was capable, it was not from 
any jealousy of a rival, but because of the 
flagrant sinfulness of Martha’s life. Mr. 
Carpenter Jones had confronted her with 
the accusation of knowing about the will 
at a moment of extreme agitation, and 
she had announced she would speak only 
before the minister, who embodied her 
ideas of justice, human and divine. 

There was further conversation in the 
sitting-room, in that subdued tone which 
sometimes succeeds startling events, then 


they moved toward the door. Hannah 
Stort had remained invisible after her in- 
terview with the minister. As John took 
up his hat he felt a light touch on his 
sleeve. Hannah Stort stood on the stairs. 
She stooped until her face was on a level 
with that of the young man. 

“Will you sell the homestead?” she 
whispered. 

“ No,” said John, without understanding 
the question. 

Hannah Stort smiled, for the first time 
on that eventful day. 


CHAPTER IY. 

“and the years glide by.” 

Mrs. Bayard was taking breakfast one 
morning, a month later, when she received 
a letter. Surrounding circumstances were 
very different to those of Hannah Stort, 
house-keeper at Herringville, and yet Mrs. 
Bayard also opened her letter without ap- 
prehension. 

The hour was ten. Mrs. Bayard occu- 
pied a blue satin arm-chair; a little table 
placed beside her held a porcelain tray, a 
delicate roll, and a cup of chocolate. She 
thought of the sale of the Methley home- 
stead when she took up the letter. Her 
conscience was untroubled. She had treat- 
ed Hannah Stort very kindly in allowing 
her to occupy the whole house for a long 
time. The seed sown by Mr. Carpenter 
Jones in a careless remark, on the Evening 
of the Kings, had lingered in the memory 
of his hostess. She decided to dispose of 
the property, even if the money thus ob- 
tained only served to lavish fresh gifts on 
her grandson. Later the princeling would 
require a pony to ride, and a little carriage. 
Certainly no sentiment as to guarding the 
home of the man who had proved her ben- 
efactor was involved in her meditations. 

She read her letter and grew deadly pale. 
All was lost ! Mechanically she looked at 
the gilded and frescoed ceiling, as if fear- 
ing it was about to fall and crush her. 

The letter, destined to deal a cruel blow 
to the Giglio pride, was from the Herring- 
ville lawyer with whom Mrs. Bayard had 
previously held business relations; hence 
her lack of hesitation in opening it. The 
lawyer stated that a will of the late Ne- 
hemiah Methley had been found and 
proved, which left all property to his 


192 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE ; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


son John Winter. Mrs. Bayard would be 
obliged to render account of everything to 
this heir. A concise detail of the events 
following the visit of John to Herringville 
was given, comprising the legal substantia- 
tion of the document, and the discovery of 
the witness. 

Mrs. Bayard cowered in her blue satin 
arm-chair for a time, comprehending noth- 
ing except that calamity had stricken, over- 
whelmed her, and coming from an unexpect- 
ed quarter. What a mockery of chance ! 
The sculptor John Winter, who had made 
Celia’s portrait, was the child of the village 
millionnaire. She had yielded many times 
to a superstitious dread of seeing dead Cap- 
tain Methley rise before her, claiming the 
fortune of his brother. Her term of pos- 
session had been so long that a sense of se- 
curity had gained on fear. What could be 
done ? — what would become of her ? The 
miserable woman strove to rise from her 
chair, and sunk back in a state of insensi- 
lu’ity. The blow had arrived so swiftly 
i *d surely that she was unprepared to 
meet it. 

She was aroused by laughter, caressing 
Italian phrases, and the patter of little feet. 
She raised her head; her pale face and 
haggard eyes were turned toward the door. 
Soon there appeared on the threshold a 
smiling grouj) : the prince, in* his velvet 
morning coat, leading his son by the hand, 
followed by Celia and the nurse. The beau- 
tiful child, with the pure olive skin and 
lustrous eyes of his father, was attired in 
a sailor costume, and came to be admired 
by his grandmother. The prince here de- 
veloped the most charming trait of the 
Italian, and above all of the Florentine, in 
gentle fondness for his child. Already 
the affection of the princeling for his fa- 
ther w T as remarkable — the two seemed to 
understand and sympathize with each oth- 
er. The prince spent hours in the garden 
playing with his son and teasing the bloom- 
ing Marianna. He alone must teach the 
tiny feet to walk. 

Mrs. Bayard attempted to greet her vis- 
itors with a wan smile, which betrayed her 
mental sufferings. 

“ How pale you are, mamma !” exclaimed 
Celia, advancing quickly to her side. 

“ Oh, my child ! oh, my darling grand- 
child !” cried Mrs. Bayard, with a burst of 
anguish, revealing the letter. 

Celia took the folded sheet to read. 
The face of her husband lost its smile and 


became grave, even suspicious. Marianna 
vanished. 

The effort to speak cost Mrs. Bayard too 
much; she began to sob and weep con- 
vulsively. 

“ What has happened ?” demanded the 
prince, in his coldest voice. 

He raised the child in his arms as he 
spoke, and the princeling began to play 
with the jewelled pin that fastened his 
scarf. 

“I do not understand — give me a little 
time,” faltered Celia, wdth trembling lips. 

The grief and abandon of her mother 
distressed her too much for her to finish 
calmly reading the letter. 

“ See mamma, one does not weep like 
that over a little money; death alone 
should bring such sorrow,” she urged, 
soothingly. 

The prince frowned impatiently, and yet 
the child nestled in his arms without fear. 

“Will you have the goodness to speak 
French ?” he said. 

The door opened and the old princess 
appeared, swiftly and noiselessly. How 
had she scented a misfortune so soon ? 
Her dress of faded purple moire swept the 
ground, while her hair was in disorder, 
and her great black eyes shone wfith a 
sombre fire. 

At her entrance Mrs. Bayard ceased to 
sob, while Celia’s face became apprehen- 
sive. 

“ I desire to know the truth. What has 
occurred ?” demanded the old princess, 
haughtily. 

“ I do not yet know,” said her son, in a 
sullen way. 

Celia nerved herself to translate the let- 
ter. There could be no doubt as to its aw- 
ful significance. Fortune Jiad once more 
ebbed away from the Giglio coffers. 

A moment of silence followed the an- 
nouncement. Mrs. Bayard held her breath ; 
Celia’s heart throbbed tumultuously. The 
little prince, unconcerned, played with the 
silky brown beard of his parent, who kiss- 
ed the little hand absently. 

The old princess was the first to break 
this ominous stillness. A storm of rage 
swept over her sallow face, disfiguring her 
features with the fury which is the more 
terrible for its rapid outbursts. She ex- 
tended her hand with a passionate and 
threatening gesture toward her son. 

“It was for this end— to be thwarted, 
duped, and betrayed— that you married a 


193 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


foreigner — above all, an American !” — she 
cried. “ Poor fool !” 

“ Madame, misfortunes may come to any 
one,” retorted Mrs. Bayard, raising her 
head. 

A scene ensued of which the whole pal- 
ace was speedily aware. The old princess 
was indulging in one of her fits of temper, 
and the object of her wrath was Mrs. Bay- 
ard. In vain Celia protested, and strove to 
interfere, the harsh tones of the noble lady 
drowned all remonstrances, while the bit- 
terness of her scorn and anger blighted 
those on whom it descended — two sensitive 
women. The prince stood passive and al- 
lowed his mother to speak. Celia, stung 
by his coldness, more than by the hot an- 
ger of his mother, was forced to plead for 
his interference. 

“ My mother shall not suffer insult, es- 
pecially after all she has done here,” said 
Celia, with unexpected firmness. “Andrea, 
take the princess away.” 

“Talking avails nothing,” said the prince, 
in a peevish tone. 

“Ah, one can understand the fall of the 
holy Madonna now 1” cried the old princess, 
crossing herself. 

Sombre and dreary days succeeded in 
the Giglio palace. Mrs. Bayard and Celia 
spent the day together, and moistened their 
pillows with tears at night, each refraining 
from telling the other the true source of 
deep grief. 

The prince, with a new gravity of de- 
meanor, was absent much, and spent hours 
with the sagacious Count Guigione. 

The Baroness Olga lost no opportunity 
of telling her world that the.American had 
lost her fortune, owing to some reverse in 
her own land. 

At length the prince, more philosophical 
and possibly more amiable than his moth- 
er, announced himself prepared to dismiss 
the future. 

“ If this fortune does not rightfully be- 
long to your mother, how did she obtain 
possessioi?. of it ?” he inquired, one summer 
evening, strolling out on the balcony where 
his wife was seated. 

Celia briefly explained that Mrs. Bayard 
had been next of kin to the dead million- 
naire. Her tone was cold, and she did not 
raise her eyes at the approach of her hus- 
band. He had wounded her too deeply 
for reparation. Was there a fulfilment of 
married life in which, if he had been tried, 
lie had not been found deficient ? 

13 


“Then the matter rests in her own 
hands,” said the prince. 

“ Mamma will go to America,” said 
Celia. 

The prince leaned his back against the 
railing of the balcony and continued to 
smoke his cigar. The evening light fell 
on his uncovered head, his regular features, 
and supple elegant figure. The man was 
peculiarly in harmony with his surround- 
ings — the massive palace wall, the deep 
window, and garden below blooming with 
orange and olive. 

“ Have you thought of ^accompanying 
your mother? he demandeopiecking the 
ashes from his cigar. 

Celia started, and looked at him in sur- 
prise. 

“ Listen ! I shall urge your mother not 
to relinquish a sou of her property. If she 
is compelled to do so by some absurd law, 
the money goes to the sculptor. I have 
thought that no woman possessed as much 
influence with this fine genius as his first 
model.” 

Celia gazed at the stone parapet. 

“ I do not understand,” she said, slowly. 

“ Che ! Get him to give up the claim. 
Put on yourwichest robe and all your jew- 
els when you receive him. Induce him, 
at all hazards, to return here to live.” 

A slight tremor passed over the wom- 
an beside him. The rays of the setting 
sun had converted the light summer dust 
into a golden mist above the garden foli- 
age. Little winged seeds, like feathery 
atoms, floated in the luminous atmosphere, 
seeking a spot in which to deposit a 
germ of vegetation. Thus good and evil 
thoughts may pass through the human 
mind, to take root or be expelled. 

“Will you visit America?” inquired 
Celia. 

“Oh no! I am not ambitious to brave 
the ocean,” said the prince, lightly. 

Celia reflected. 

“ I will go with mamma,” she said. 

Herringville experienced a revival of the 
excitement incident to the death of Nehe- 
miah Methley, in recent events. 

Squire Nuthall had become a great man 
since the day of Hannah Stort’s confession. 
The matter was no longer a secret, and he 
was required to repeat many times in the 
twenty-four hours the circumstance of the 
old house-keeper drawing a will from the 
tray of a Chinese tea-box before his very 


194 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

eyes. The worthy man found hi3 post 
wearisome, as his fame and popularity in- 
creased. Farmers came from a distance 
of many miles, and demanded particulars 
from Squire Nuthall’s own lips in confir- 
mation of rumors which had reached them. 
At length he was “interviewed” by the 
reporter of a county journal — a climax of 
celebrity which rendered him very uncom- 
fortable until he read the result of the con- 
versation in. print. 

The shock of Nehemiah Methley’s death 
was dlpiallncLif not exceeded, by the fact 
of John Winder being his son. Martha 
Winter’s child would have all the money ! 
The village and township immediately suf- 
fered a division into hostile camps, and 
fierce arguments were waged over garden 
fences, and at corn-huskings in barns al- 
ready stored for winter with mounds of 
fragrant hay. One faction maintained that 
it had always believed Nehemiah Methley 
was a sanctimonious rascal, who ground 
the face of the poor. The opposition found 
that Martha Winter had been an ambitious 
woman, owing to her superior education, 
and intended to rival the claim of Hannah 
Stort, the suitable wife select^. by old Mrs. 
Methley for her son. A third voice pro- 
claimed that Nehemiah Methley, after he 
became rich, felt himself above both wom- 
en. He had attempteeTto marry a wealthy 
widow of Boston, who had snubbed him 
for his pains, and afterward he remained 
single. 

Miss Toppe, milliner, belonged to the 
first camp, as a nature disposed to take a 
dark view of life. She again came out to 
the cart of the young butcher for her favor- 
ite bit of pork. 

“You remember what I said at the time 
of Nehemiah Methley’s death, Samuel ?” she 
said, with a mournful shake of the head. 

The young butcher, a trifle more florid 
and with a double chin, had risen in the 
world, having married the daughter of 
his employer, but he still drove about the 
country. He did not recall the words of 
Miss Toppe on the occasion mentioned, 
but he concealed such forgetfulness with a 
discreet allusion to forthcoming .sausages, 
which had the desired result. 

Mr. Carpenter Jones had been indefatiga- 
ble in assisting John Winter and the Her- 
ringville lawyer during the period of es- 
sential investigations. He visited the lit- 
tle village where the will had been made, 
with these two, and personally traced the 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

other witnesses to the far West. When a 
letter announced the speedy return of Mrs. 
Bayard to America, he became perturbed 
and abstracted. 

“ Look here ! I do not care about meet- 
ing her,” he said, uneasily. “ I have only 
done my duty, but I have struck the Bay- 
ard’s a blow in the dark without being 
aware of it.” 

Accordingly, he prepared to depart. Be- 
fore withdrawing from an affair which had 
interested him he added, 

“There is little Celia, now. It would 
not be much for a man of your sort, John 
Winter, to leave her the marriage portion 
she has received. She is not to blame, you 
know.” 

“ I have thought of it,” said John, quietly. 

Then Mr. Carpenter Jones wrung his 
hand, kissed Justinia, placed his soft hat 
firmly on his head, and went away. 

Justinia had joined her husband at Her- 
ringville, thus furnishing fresh food for vil- 
lage gossip. Together the couple visited 
all the haunts of John’s boyhood. Seth 
Blake, shoemaker; was dead, and his quer- 
ulous wife had moved away. Justinia lin- 
gered beside the brook, and endeavored to 
discover the snow- woman in the limpid 
waters. Her influence was perceptible on 
Hannah Stort. The old woman still re- 
mained in the homestead, while John Win- 
ter stopped at the tavern. No inducement 
could make him sleep -beneath Nehemiah 
Methley’s roof. Hannah Stort, either at- 
tracted by J dstinia or from a sly instinct 
of propitiating John, began to confide in 
his bride; and Justinia listened to her not 
without sympathy. • 

One day she presented herself before 
John smilingly, and with a large package 
in her arms. 

“ The poor old w.oman wishes to give me 
the labor of thirty years, and I have accept- 
ed it.” 

• • • • 

Justinia unrolled the bed-cover, finished 
to the last stitch, before her husband’s un- 
appreciative masculine eye. “The home- 
stead ntust remain as it stands while she 
lives,” continued the young wife, coaxingly. 

“ Is this the price of your advocacy ?” in- 
quired John, pointing to the needle-work. 
“The house shall remain as it is. Do you 
know, I believe Hannah Stort has proved 
a friend to me rather than an enemy. Res- 
titution during the life of my poor moth- 
er would have been worth something. I 
would not exchange the years spent with 




195 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 


the master, in Florence, for Nehemiah Meth- 
ley’s whole fortune.” 

John’s face clouded with painful memo- 
ries; Justinia slipped her hand into his 
without speaking. 

The autumn sun shone bright and warm 
on the little village, and the maple-trees 
about the gate of Nehemiah Methley had 
again changed to gold in the advancing 
season. 

In the cemetery on the hill three per- 
sons were grouped, to the lively curiosity 
of all Herringville. 

Miss Toppe remarked to her admiring 
neighbors, “ They say she’s a princess, al- 
though I don’t know as that makes her 
better than other folks. I mean to see 
how her hat’s made, if I break my neck !” 

The three strangers in the cemetery were 
the American princess, Justinia, and John 
Winter. They stood beside the new tomb 
of Martha Winter. A shaft of marble on 
a granite base now marked this obscure 
grave, with the head of the dead woman, 
in relief, above the epitaph. This profile, 
an effort of memory on the part of her son, 
was recognized by Herringville. John’s 
pride was gratified : even the head-stone 
of Nehemiah Methley was dwarfed by this 
fresh ornament of the cemetery. 

Celia looked about her pensively, while 
Justinia arranged a profusion of hot-house 
flowers, sent from the distant city, on the 
tomb. 

Mrs. Bayard and Celia had arrived the 
previous day, and again slept beneath the 
Methley roof. The former was now con- 
ferring with the old^awyer. She clung 
tenaciously to her rights of possession. 
The concession, on John Winter’s part, 
that Celia’s dowry should remain untouch- 
ed, only half appeased her. What would 
become of her grandson, the princeling? 
A serious obstacle confronted her at the 
outset. John Winter, artist and dreamer, 
was already married to a young woman, 
with clear, dark eyes, endowed by nature 
with an elegance of bearing. Mrs. Bayard 
was at a loss to account for the manifest 
hostility of Hannah Stort. She attributed 
all change to ingratitude. Hannah Stort 
welcomed the reign of Justinia with evident 
satisfaction. Had not Justinia, following 
her husband here, told the astonished agent, 
when he arrived, that the Methley home- 
stead would not be sold? The house- 
keeper would never forget the incident. 

Celia watched Justinia arrange the flow- 


ers, a passive spectator. She had not deck- 
ed herself in jewels to awe John Winter, 
and yet the charm of her presence, some 
delicate perfume exhaled from her gar- 
ments, the tinkle of little bells attached to 
her glove, aroused in him memories tender 
and soft. 

One picture after another framed them- 
selves in Celia’s large eyes as John Winter 
looked at her. Again she was the girl 
asleep on the old chintz sofa of the Meth- 
ley sitting-room, dreaming of her robe of 
gold. Again she was the model of his 
studio in a lavender dress, si^aiTJig, patient, 
a little curious, with the Panclora’s expres- 
sion of wonder hovering about her lips. 
Again she was the bride, in white satin 
and diamonds, flushed with pride and hap- 
piness, entering the mansion on the Arno 
bank — where he paused to gaze at her, 
standing beneath the illuminated harp. 
Again she was the weary cq^valescent, 
moving about the monastery of St. Mark 
on the peaceful Sunday noon, surrounded 
by Fra Angelico’s “Angels.” These mem- 
ories stirred the whole na^ire of the young 
man. 

Justinia watched her companions with 
a slight contraction of the eyebrows. 

How had the Prince del Giglio, leaning 
against the balcony railing in the twilight, 
so fully fathomed the soul of his antago- 
nist? 

Celia spok#; the smile, which was half 
mocking, dawned on her face. She ex- 
tended her hand to Justinia. 

“ Will you give me a few flowers, please ?” 

Justinia complied, wonderingly. 

“We three are young,” continued Celia, 
in a musing tone. “We are also very un- 
grateful. The poor man yonder, who has 
done so much for us, has received neither 
a flower nor a prayer.” 

As she spoke she crossed the cemetery 
to the grave of Nehemiah Methley. The 
dried twigs and weeds brushed her rich, 
dress, the little bells on her gloves tin- 
kled softly. She placed the flowers on 
the sod, and knelt, taking her rosary from 
her pocket. Her lips murmured a prayer 
for the dead. When she had finished she 
rose, and remained contemplating the spot. 
The others joined her. 

“May your soul rest in peace!” s^ con- 
tinued, addressing the dead. “I wonder 
if you regret what you have done. I won- 
der if any of us would act the same, if we 
could commence life anew.” 


196 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE 

Then they left the cemetery, and the sun- 
shine slanted from the tomb of Martha 
Winter across the grass to the head-stone 
of Nehemiah Methley. The two graves 
a]3peared already linked together by re- 
ceiving the same flowers. This was the 
moral record of the village million naire, 
after many years. 

A Norman fisherman once said, “ God 
does not pay his workmen every day, but 
he pays them in the end, all the same.” 

Celia glanced about the village with a 
puzzled expression. Herringville, sensi- 
tive and r @l| r to take offence at grand 
manners, could find no fault with her. 
The little girl, in a limp sun-bonnet, was 
emerging from the doctor’s gate, leading a 
little boy. At the window appeared the 
doctor’s wife, still pretty, with a baby in 
her arms. John and Justinia greeted the 
little girl, once the doctor's baby. The 
boy gazed mt Celia with serious, dark eyes. 

“ I have a little boy like you across the 
sea,” she said, softly, and her lip quivered. 
‘‘He would be very happy if he might 
make a gift to ii child here in Herring- 
ville. I am confident your mamma will 
consent.” 

She turned to Miss Toppe, who had ap- 
proached. 

“ Oh, I am sure, ma’am, under the cir- 
cumstances,” murmured Miss Toppe, with 
a little cough. 

Celia kissed the boy, and -placed in his 
chubby hand a foreign coin of gold. 

“ The hat was made of silk, covered with 
feathers; I wished to make sure before I 
told anybody,” said the milliner, returning 
in triumph to her little shop. 

Justinia had reached the Methley home- 
stead. She disapproved of the American 
princess, with a vague sentiment of pain. 

John opened the gate for Celia, and as 
she entered the golden maple leaves again 
fell softly on her head. She turned back 
to look at him. 

“ John Winter, your wife dislikes me ! 
but I am glad the fortune has come to you 
at last,” she said. 

John Winter sighed. 

That evening Justinia took the head of 
her husband between her hands with an 
expression of unusual tenderness. 

“Mj poor old John, you have a good 
heart and a stupid head,” she said, kissing 
liis forehead. “ Had you not already mar- 
ried me these ladies would have despoiled 
you with the sweetest selfishness in the 


; OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

world. You might retain sufficient to keep 
Abraham Blackwood and yourself from 
starving, and that would be all. With a 
wife the position is changed.” 

John encircled her with his arms. 

“ Poor little bird ! you deserve all that 
wealth can bring, and you shall have it,” 
he replied. 

Then Justinia went to the cracked piano 
of this primitive hotel and began to sing. 
Justinia’s voice had returned to her, and 
she always sung in the twilight. Herring- 
ville listened entranced to this concert. 
John was transported by these sweet, pure 
tones, which had gained pathos of expres- 
sion, to the airy loggia, with its faded fres- 
coes and flowers. He felt wafted about 
him the perfume of the little orange-tree. 

Five years later spring again dawned on 
Florence and the Yal d’Arno. 

These passing years had brought changes 
to the Giglio palace. The state apartment 
had been rented to a retired Indian officer. 
The young couple had, consequently, re- 
turned to the historical rooms. The prince 
still drove his wagon w T ith the yellow 
wheels and four-in-hand team ; the toilets 
of his- wife were fresh and varied. The 
Correggio “ Cupid ” had vanished from the 
wall of the great sala, together with the 
Medici porcelain, the missals, and the col- 
lection of wood- cuts and drawings. No 
entertainments were henceforth given here. 

Mrs. Bayard dwelt no longer in Florence, 
scene of her former prosperity. Certain 
hotels at Nice, Cannes, and Mentone w T ere 
frequented by her Cft winter, as well as 
certain nooks of S\ytzerland in summer, 
where her daughter joined her. The pit- 
tance allowed her by John Winter, as she 
termed his handsome yearly income, was 
accepted resentfully. The poor lady talk- 
ed much about her daughter the Princess 
del Giglio, and, when in gracious mood, 
showed the photograph of her grandson, 
the little prince, to a new acquaintance. 
In the Giglio palace she was still regarded 
with disfavor, because of her misfortunes. 

The old princess continued to work on 
the “ Flight into Egypt ” when Count Gui- 
gione visited her, and warmed her fingers 
with a scaldino on bitter days. Family dis- 
cussions w'ere occasionally held in her pres- 
ence with regard to the future of the little 
prince ; and the grievance of having lost 
Mrs. Bayard’s fortune when Celia’s dot had 
been already nearly spent, was made to 


197 


A FOREIGN MARRIAGE; 

weigh heavily on her daughter-in-law. 
This last Andrea should be educated for 
diplomacy, sent as an attache to London, 
where it was to be hoped he would found 
his claims to a foreign match on a more 
solid basis than his father had done. This 
was the burden of her song, as the old prin- 
cess drew the worsted through the canvas 
or yawned in the sunny garden. 

Mrs. Bayard refused to visit this house. 
She temporized with the present by illu- 
sive dreams of the future. Celia would be 
actual mistress at the death of the old 
princess, she reasoned, then all would be 
changed. She invariably reassured her 
daughter in these terms. 

The old sculptor continued to dream in 
his studio. He received many orders for 
historical busts, destined for libraries and 
public buildings, which gratified his self- 
love and developed his best capacities for 
hewing out strong, masculine features. 
These heads, in marble and bronze, were 
secretly ordered by John Winter. 

The Italian spring found the latter and 
his w T ife again in Florence. He had prom- 
ised Justinia to live in his own country, 
after having gratified a thirst for travel 
which had led them to every art centre of 
Europe and the East. They had reached 
Florence on their return. 

John strolled out alone on the Arno 
bank, after a day of pilgrimage to favorite 
shrines with Justinia. 

The setting sun once more flooded the 
sky with a rosy glow, windows glittered 
in the light, flowers filled the air with 
sweetness. Opposite, the heights of Bel- 
losguardo and Monte Oliveto wore their 
freshest verdure, and the river flowed be- 
neath its arching bridges down to Pisa and 
the sea. The noble old city, ruined by 
financial speculation and deserted by royal 
favor, still wore its aspect of unrivalled love- 
liness, with its domes, marbles, and towers 
framed in purple hills. 

A small and dapper gentleman had pass- 
ed John without recognition: it was the 
Count Carmine Guigione — fresh, jaunty, 
smiling — smoothing his gloves, adjusting 
the flower in his button-hole, and approach- 


OR, BUYING A TITLE. 

ing the Cascine gate. The count had just 
arranged a match with the long anticipated 
Englishman, in this case very youthful and 
downy, and the younger daughter of the 
Countess Vallambroni. He was happy. 

The rolling of carriage-wheels attracted 
the ear of John Winter. A phaeton, drawn 
by little ponies in sparkling harness, passed 
swiftly. In the phaeton was seated the 
Baroness Olga, again blooming in maize- 
colored draperies. She glanced coquet- 
tishly at the pedestrian from beneath her 
veil. She wore on her finger a ring with 
the head of a Sphinx, which, as the leader 
of fashionable society and woman of pleas- 
ure, she had adopted as her emblem. The 
widowhood of Baroness Olga was not a sea- 
son of dolorous mourning. 

A second rolling of wheels made John 
Winter turn his head. The Prince del Gig- 
lio, his wife, and son appeared. The prince 
occupied his corner of the landau with the 
bored expression considered indispensable 
to such occasions. Celia was attired in 
white, while the little prince, in black vel- 
vet, formed a charming contrast with her 
fleecy garments. 

She did not perceive John Winter. The 
Prince del Giglio, without changing his 
attitude, suffered his glance to rest a mo- 
ment on the man who had played so im- 
portant a part in his own life, but not a 
quiver of his haughty eyelids, not a feature 
of his beautiful face, betrayed recognition. 

“ Poor princess !” said J ohn, and passed on. 

The vesper bells of Florence began to 
chime from every tower: it was evening. 
These bells rung on the ear of Celia, mo- 
notonous, without melody, holding out 
neither present nor future hope in all the 
coming years. Perhaps the Spanish lady, 
whose neglected portrait she had discover- 
ed on a dark stairway, had listened in her 
day, with the same shadow clouding her 
face, the same listlessness dulling her eyes. 

The American princess leaned forward 
suddenly and clasped the hand of her 
child. The Prince del Giglio yawned be- 
hind his glove. The little prince raised 
his dark eyes to her face caressingly and 
smiled. 


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